


The Cruelest Punishment

by human_wreckage



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Redemption, Slow Burn, a lot of the warning tags are for implied content, even slower writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_wreckage/pseuds/human_wreckage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hans faces the punishment promised to Queen Elsa when he returns to the Southern Isles, which begin with his eldest brother and escalate all the way down to his next eldest brother, each one taking on a new and more torturous level. A year later, a Southern Isles veteran and his wife seek political asylum, having brought what was left of the Prince to back Arendelle, at their own risk. Queen Elsa, on top of the issues associated with running her kingdom, is begrudgingly tasked with giving the man who once tried to kill her sanctuary from those she sent him to. Twelve punishments he survived, but is the cruelest still yet to come?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imprisonment and Disownment

Of there being fates worse than death, Egon was certain. Some time ago, he had been ordered to keep a certain prisoner alive, which involved little more than delivering meager and spoiled food, dumping a pissbucket out a barred window at the end of a hall above, and when the situation called for it, roughly patching the man up. No one would recognize him, Egon was certain, were they to see him. His hair fell in straggles below his shoulders and was so dirty Egon wasn’t sure what color it was. The man had once been well groomed, he decided, though he could not explain what gave him that impression. They never spoke and Egon had never been told who he was, just that he would be paid two gold pieces for every week the man lived. As a veteran in his forties, with a wife and a shack to keep afloat, Egon didn’t question it, much.

            A summer morning had just begun when he checked on the prisoner. A small set of fresh and bleeding scratches scored a small section of the prisoner’s left flank. Egon stood by the pissbucket for a full minute, pity and dread growing in him as he looked at the man with his back turned to him. Spurred into movement by a sound in the prison, Egon took the pissbucket and its slops and left to go to the end of the hall above and dump it out the window, where it fed into the sea. Upon his return, the prisoner had assumed a tired and defeated position on the bed. As was usual, Egon rapped his wedding ring against a bar on the door to alert the prisoner of his presence and his intent to check on the fresh wounds.

            He sat down on the bed and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at the scratches. Egon’s charge flinched somewhat at the first touch but made no movements or sound. This was by no means the worst he had seen the man endure. Somehow, he always endured. Putting the handkerchief between his hand and the naked flesh of the man’s unwashed shoulder, Egon tried to coax him into rolling onto his back. He met resistance at first, but succeeded in rolling him back and jumped back at the sight of his face. His faced was bruised under the beard, one green eye swollen shut. He still had his teeth, but there was a slight crook to his nose that had not been there perhaps the day before. Egon muttered an oath under his breath, then set down again, knowing that his handkerchief would do nothing for the bruises and swelling.

            “Whatever you been doing to provoke them, maybe you should think about stopping it,” Egon said, aggravation at the ill-treatment mixing with a severe dislike for the situation. That sentence was the longest he had ever spoken to his charge. To his surprise, the man grinned, revealing still-white teeth, though his mouth reeked. “My crime is long past… they do this for fun.”

            Egon’s stomach turned, and he cursed aloud, “Sadistic bastards, then.”

            “They are my brothers,” the prisoner said, his un-swollen eye closing and the grin dispersing. Egon was shocked, and somewhat confused. His own brother might have given him hell when they were youths, but never would he have done… this. “Who are they?” Egon asked, a question he had been plagued with from the beginning of his work, “Who are you?”

            The prisoner didn’t answer. For several moments, Egon set on the bed and wondered if the man would, but came to the conclusion that he had slipped off into an uneasy sleep. Egon stood, knowing he would be back later with a “meal” for his charge and hoping for answers then. He had just shut the door and began to bolt the lock back in place with the keys when he heard an answer to one of his questions:

            “Hans.”

   

* * *

 

It was several days before they spoke again, and in that time, Egon had time to put a few things together. His wife, the loveable but overbearing harlot he pulled from the gutter, was a quick woman, and—he was loathe to admit—had helped him in piecing together the puzzle. The man was sitting with his head against the stone wall of his prison, using, Egon guessed, its coolness to soothe the spot on his face most aching. He dumped the pissbucket, unable to abide the smell, though his nose was little good after his career as a soldier, and returned to find the man in the same position.

            “So, your name is Hans?” Egon began. It took the man a moment to turn around, and Egon was actually relieved to see the swelling had gone down, but was replaced with bruising. He nodded, as though he were unable to talk past a parched throat. “And your brothers have enough pull to lock you down here… the way they have… to order done to you what’s been done. Those are truths, aye?”

            The man only answered with a slight nod, surely knowing what Egon was going to say next.

            “So, I figure your brothers be the Princes, and you, Prince Hans,” reasoned the veteran, who leant against the inner wall of the door, “But that’d be impossible, since you were hanged to death six months ago in front of the royal court.”

            Guards and maids and servants had all gossiped about how horrible the youngest prince’s death was, made to stand before his brothers and swing for trying to seize the throne of Arendelle from Queen Elsa, and failing. The prince had said to have been wearing a black hood over his head, though, when he faced the noose. At the time of his death, and was no longer a prince, having been disowned by his brothers and stripped of land and wealth before the execution. Little of that passed through Egon’s mind at that second, his eyes on Hans, but it had the night before, as he pieced it together with his wife. The ex-prince looked at Egon, an emotion playing on his face that was a cross between bemusement and fear. “My brothers would never have simply let me hang… they haven’t.”

            Egon looked at his hands, thinking briefly of the meaning of those words. “No…” Eyes coming up, he backtracked gruffly, “Name’s Egon.”

            “I liked it better when we didn’t talk, Egon,” Hans said, turning away and facing the wall again. The veteran made a face, then stood up and went out the door, shutting it. He muttered, “Suit yourself,” as he went down the stone hall.

 

* * *

 

            Egon came back every day, but he and Hans talked no more, and the veteran did little more than was required to keep the prisoner alive. When the man would return to his little hovel, he would tell his wife about the day as she sat on his knee, then she would tell him about hers, and when there was little else to say, he would voice the nagging feelings he had for the ex-prince. “They’re cruel to him,” he would say, and his wife would touch at his beard, “I’ve seen nothing good happen to that boy, and it only gets worse.”

            “So… set him free, Egon,” his wife would say, though the first time, he had been floored by such a statement. He’d explained every obstacle, yet would imagine a way around them while he talked, and his wife would pat his chest, get up, and go back to whatever she was doing until they slipped off to bed. She would always say it gently, and he would laugh as if it were a joke, to set Hans free. Egon would always finish off his thoughts with, “Besides, if I did, they’d know it was me, and I’d get a necklace at the gallows and you’d be on your own.”

 

* * *

 

            The day came, however, when Egon had seen enough. The prince had suffered, and suffered, but the last punishment of the twelfth prince was more than Egon could bear to see one brother do to the other.

            Egon’s normal walk down the hall was so quiet, half the time he thought that Hans might be gone, dead, something. On the day Egon had enough, Hans was whimpering. It wasn’t something Egon had heard the prince do before, and he was alerted before the clotted blood on the stones became visible. The veteran rushed through opening the door, eyes on Hans’ blanketed figure. Though Egon was loud enough for three floors above and below to have heard him, Hans didn’t stop whimpering, didn’t turn, and jumped when Egon gripped his frame with a strong hand. The blanket—more of a sheep’s skin with little give—fell to the floor, and horrified, Egon paused, the bloody body before him a testament to the cruelty those with power could treat even family. “Oh, son… what have they done to you?” he asked, pulling the prince into an awkward hold. Feverishly, Hans continued to made pained noises and shivered.

            Egon decided then that Hans’ punishments were enough. He would get Hans out of the prison and away from his brothers, or he would hang for trying.

            During the middle of the day, Egon went home and talked to his wife. The only thing he hadn’t thought of a way around was what to do after freeing the prisoner. His wife was confused as to what had happened to spur Egon into action. The words were hard to get out, his adrenaline running out and his stomach going cold. “They cut him,” Egon forced out. His wife didn’t understand at first, so he repeated, adding in a gesture to the offended area. She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide in horror. For a minute, they were quiet and still, until she broke the silence, “We take him to Arendelle. Maybe the Queen would show him mercy or kill him—either one’s better than staying here. She might let us stay there, too, safe from the King’s men.” Making a face, Egon was going to dismiss the idea at first, but let it settle. “We’ll try that,” he told her, always surprised at how quick his wife, an ex-trollop, was.

            Night fell, and Egon had his wife pack up their scarce belongs and sell the house—it was a hovel, but they took a low offer from an even more impoverished family of three just to be rid of it—using the money to buy a horse and cart. She sat a street away from the prison, and Egon returned as if he were put out that his charge, Hans, was such a hassle. The guards didn’t bat an eye.

            In the cell, Hans had managed an uneasy sleep. “Wake up,” he said quickly, urgently, “Wake up. I’m getting you out of here.” The prince opened his eyes, but Egon could tell he was still in too much pain to comprehend. There would be no way he could walk out on his own. Egon had carried in an extra cloak, hidden as if it were his gut, and wrapped the prince in it before carefully putting Hans over his shoulder. Egon was not terribly burdened; Hans had dropped weight since his life in the palace, and had little muscle mass left, more or less just skin and bones. The old veteran had planned his escape to avoid guards and keep to the shadows, his old skills from soldiering days put to good use.

            It took him a good hour to escape the jail, having to use a labyrinth of doors and passages, having to wait at times until the guards moved far enough away that nothing would alert them. When he was at last to the street, and to his wife, they made for the docks, where a friend and old veteran could get the three onto a ship bound for Arendelle. It would not leave until the morning, but they had time, Egon thought.

            Below deck, in a storeroom, his wife tended to Hans with tears in her eyes. She bound his fingers and toes in makeshift gauze, then used a rag to wash away the blood and filth from his body, dismay growing with every pass she made across the skin. Egon watched her do all this, then helped her dress him in clothes too loose for him, but probably the first that Hans had been able to wear to Egon’s knowledge in six months. When that was done, they took up a watch on him in the chair beside the storeroom’s boarded bed, each getting sleep for a few hours before switching up. When dawn broke and the ship weighed anchor, Egon went above and thanked the captain, talking with him for some time about his son, below deck, sick with something that he hoped could be cured in Arendelle. It was a four day journey from the Southern Isles to Queen Elsa’s domain, which Egon could only hope would pass quickly and without incident. Naturally, that sort of hope was only good to fools.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What starts as a worm in the divots of my mind becomes... this.  
> If the princes are cruel enough to ignore a little boy completely, I wondered how quickly punishments become a one-uping contest of who can devise and execute the worst of the worst.  
> More chapters written, but this'll be a shot in the dark if I get no feedback.  
> 


	2. Repossession

Egon, veteran of the Southern Isles was a wanted man. He was seen to have entered the prison of the sixth Prince, Prince Adelbert, but not leave. A prisoner of high value was taken, and it was believed that Egon had helped him escape, if not stole him away. The princes of the Southern Isles from six to twelve were in a state of frenzy, something the eldest prince could not understand. Still, he sent bounty hunters out into the prison’s city, on request, to recover Egon and anyone in his company. The eldest brother was not aware that his youngest brother still lived, being among those who thought he had died on the gallows, punishment from princes five through twelve. Though he had voted to disown and imprison Hans for the rest of his life, the eldest brother bore the youngest no ill will, and would not have allowed the death sentence had there not been a majority after it—the majority that would still be around to cause him problems when he became King. It had been Hans’ defense of his actions that brokered no leniency on his part.

            A year before, Hans returned from Arendelle in chains, having tried to kill the young Queen and succeeding only in straining relationships between the two kingdoms. The King of the Southern Isles had passed off punishment to his sons, unwilling to pass judgment on his youngest son and believing that his brothers would deal with him justly. If the twelve would have stopped with the eldest prince’s punishment, it would have been. Before passing collective judgment on his brother with the rest of the princes, the eldest prince visited Hans in the cushy “cell” he had been given to await a sentence—a courtiers room—to speak.

            Suspicion had been the first thing to cross Hans’ youthful face. They were fifteen years apart, the eldest, Dorian, and the youngest, Hans. They had never been close, but despite the age difference and their distance, the elder considered it the right thing to do to see what his youngest brother had to say for himself.

            “Why, Hans?” Dorian asked after closing the door after him, disappointed, “What in Creation possessed you to try and wile and kill your way onto the throne of Arendelle?”

            A nameless spasm of emotion crossed Hans’ face, and he turned away for a moment, as if to collect himself. When he turned back, he looked nothing like the young prince Dorian had thought he knew, but vindictive and smug, “ _You_ ask me this? _You_ , who are heir to the Throne? I shouldn’t even try to explain it to you.” Hans said, a cold, yet superior glare trained on his elder brother. Dorian did not look away, fingers of one hand going to the other to fondle the Signet Ring of the Crown Prince, his station. “You should be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage of women. Our Mother would be disappointed,” the elder brother chided

            Hans vaulted over the lounge chair between them and stopped short of tackling the heir. His hands made fists, opening again, as if he would strangle his brother. “Do not speak of her… please. I’ll explain it to you, Dorian, but do not speak of her,” Hans negotiated, straightening and putting distance between them again. The smug façade had cracked when Dorian had mentioned the dead Queen Mother—salt in an old wound. The heir knew just why Hans was so touchy about their mother: the woman had never seemed particularly interested in the last sons, having long before given up on the notion of a daughter, and managed to tell Hans at five years old that he was a mistake. When reproached for it, the Queen argued that he was a child, and couldn’t understand, much less remember it later, so it didn’t matter. That had been the basis of their relationship until her death when Hans was ten.

            Dorian took a seat on the chair Hans had jumped over, while Hans set on the bed and tapped his foot. He got up again to pace, then came to a stop at the window, composure taking him over again at last. Facing Dorian again, he had the cold, superior look restored, “How easy it must have been for you, to know your purpose all your life, to have been taught and groomed to be Heir. I’m certain it has been easy for Henrik as well, being your spare, though I imagine his life is like waiting for a lightning strike to touch down at his feet, a second shoe to drop.” Dorian’s brows drew, thinking about his next-down brother, the second-in-line. Dorian was married, though he and his wife had no children yet. “Vilppu has ever been the general at heart, though most of our brothers are warriors in their own rights, excepting the poets like Iefan and Aleksander. They’ve all found something to do with their lives. From between the time that Mother… passed… and when you married, I never felt as though I were fulfilling my purpose. I tried a little of everything, I think you know. But the only things I excelled at were things as useless to me as I was to anything else.” Hans paused, composure holding, to let it sink in.

            Dorian took the time to think of what it was that Hans spoke of, “Leadership…?”

            Hans’ face cracked for a smile, unsettling in its bitterness, “Yes. I manage well, but not as a Bookkeeper or Captain. I’ve got the same blood in me that you do—I was born able to lead the people. At first, the idea brought me nothing more than depression, considering what my situation was… We’ve heard tales of other Kingdom’s whose power has been usurped by murdering siblings, but even as the thought came to me, I knew I could do it…”

            Dorian had been allowed enough time to be horrified at the idea of murder to climb to the throne, but Hans’s words hadn't brought as much relief as they had an uncomfortable squirm in his stomach . “You couldn’t murder us,” Dorian stated, disbelief in this being false, “We’re your brothers.”

            “That wasn’t the problem,” Hans said, callously, shocking Dorian, “You all could rot in the depths of Hell, as far as I care. It’s that it would have been insane to try and kill you all.”

            The heir’s eyes stared in wide horror at his youngest brother, and Hans laughed, “You should see your face: so much surprise at the idea that I resent you all so much. Well, where was your love and concern when I was young and had no champions? Where were you, the greatest of my brothers, when I was ignored and belittled? No… I care nothing for you twelve, my tormentors. I simply found it impossible to assassinate each one of you before someone took notice and stopped me.

            “I decided, instead, to find a Kingdom to marry into. I tried here and there, but all the princesses were long-missing, lowly in the ranks, or already married. Arendelle was preferable, but all suitors to Queen Elsa had been turned away. My intention was to woo the second daughter, Princess Anna, make her my wife and arrange for Elsa an accident. I would be the steady hand on Anna’s as we ascended the throne.

            “Then, Elsa showed herself to be cursed or… whatever it is that she is… bewitching… and turned Arendelle to winter. Anna left me in charge, and I felt like I was truly doing what it was that I was made to do, leading the fretful people in their time of need, and doing a good job of it. Anna did not return, though her horse did, and this led to that until I was leading men up the North Mountain to save her from her sister. I saved Elsa’s life; did you know that?”

            Dorian had been listening for long enough that he was fumbling for an answer to a question he did not expect, “N-No… I did not.” Hans nodded, making a face as though he were tasting the answer, mulling over a quick reply.

            “I expected that that was forgotten," Hans finally said, "Considering that I tried to take her life. Wiselton’s men would have killed her, though she did well protecting herself until I stopped her.” Hans’ eyes swept out of the present, and he paused before continuing, “‘Do not be the monster they fear you are,’ I said to her, and she stopped, though it nearly cost her a bolt to the heart. The arrow meant to take her life damaged a piece in her ice castle,—though I suppose everyone thinks I aimed the arrow now—which nearly crushed her. She hit her head, and remembered nothing of me bringing her back to Arendelle. I was gentle, though… Dorian, you’ve never seen a more beautiful, fair maiden in all your life. Hair like the winter sun… eyes like ice, delicate. Had she not been as frigid as her ice to the charms of men, I would have chosen her over her sister, since the marriage would only have been for power, though Anna made a prettier bride than I hoped for. I deviate.

            “I was a perfect gentleman with the Queen, from the moment I lifted her onto my saddle, to the time I tucked her into a cot in the dungeons of her own castle. No one suspected. All Anna had to do was return in one piece, and we could continue as I had planned, Elsa either imprisoned all her life or executed for cursing her Kingdom, either way losing her crown. But Anna came back wounded, desperate for true love’s kiss to save her from freezing. I knew my kiss would not save her, and as we were alone, I knew my cover would be broken. I told her everything, starting with how I didn’t love her. My plans… ruined. I was cruel to her. I would have to make all new plans, and I was thinking on my feet, thinking that if I let her die, and if Elsa were to die as well, blamed for Anna’s death, I would become the new monarch, free of having to truly marry anyone for it, though I told the others that she and I had said our wedding vows before she died.”

            Hans slapped his hand down on the seal of the window, making his brother jump, “But she didn’t die. Anna escaped onto the ice where I chased Elsa, freezing quickly in the blowing snow. Elsa was devastated when she thought she had killed her sister… I think she would not have fought me before I killed her, her grief overtaking her good sense. She would have died quickly, though I’m not sure where I aimed. As I brought my sword down, Anna was there, standing between us, freezing solid as my sword hit her. I was blown back, knocked out, and when I woke up, she was alive, and fine, and the winter was gone. I was returned here just after that.” The younger prince reached the end of his tale, and he seemed to have no remorse, no shame, and no qualms. The elder didn't recognize the stranger standing at the window.

            Dorian thought of how he had left without a word, his mind made up that Hans deserved the punishment that would come to him from the princes. The eldest thought it would be one punishment, agreed upon by all his brothers except Hans. He had been prepared to hand him over. The day that he passed judgment, he disowned Hans, ordered him imprisoned for all the rest of his days. Then Henrik had spoken up, taking all Hans' wealth to divvy up amongst the others, with Vilppu ordered him whipped, and the rest claiming that they would punish him as well. It was frightening, and ever since, Dorian had not wished to earn the ire of his brothers. So he sent the bounty hunters, three. Their names mattered not, but, if they had to have names, Dorian might would have called those he sent after the prisoner—and the veteran Egon— Flaxen, Bent, and Dodgy. Not a one of them looked like reputable characters, each like wayward thieves, each built thickly in their own way. Flaxen thick in muscle, Bent thick in fat, and Dodgy thick in hair, which was greasy and black, making him the dodgiest of the three. It was their reputations as dogged bounty hunters that lent the prince confidence in them.

            He was bothered by the Princes’ agitation, deciding that no expense from their pockets was too great to pay for what they demanded of him. Dorian had a suspicion that the prisoner was not just some thief or transgressor, but perhaps, someone he thought dead. Someone who might have been spared the death he was sentenced to for a worse fate… Hans.

 

* * *

 

Flaxen was the first to find a lead on Egon. He’d already been by the house—if one could call it that—where the veteran had lived with his wife, and found nothing, so, went back to the area around the prison, following a fading cart trail, running in the direction of the docks. He found a man who might know a man who was friends with Egon, quickly paying him for the name, then finding said friend, who he muscled into talking. Surely, Bent and Dodgy would not be long behind. The veteran was bound for Arendelle with the prisoner. All that was left was to charter a boat to catch up with the one already on the way.

 

* * *

 

Dorian decided to have the bounty hunters followed by a quintet of his father’s finest guards, more loyal than even his brothers. They were given orders to, if the bounty hunters found Egon and the prisoner, pay them off and allow the pair of hunted to stay where they were, but to send word to himself, so he might see the prisoner for his own eyes. If it was Hans, Dorian needed to know.

 

* * *

 

Hans came out of his fever in his sleep, and when he awoke, he awoke in the company of strangers, a man with short grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and a thin, weepy woman, both dressed as he would expect the working-class poor to. Confusedly, Hans scrambled back to the corner of the bed to take in his surroundings. Wooden interior, a store room, perhaps, and everything in the place made a noise like it leaned and groaned; Hans was on a ship. It had only taken his first movement in throwing the blankets back to feel the pain his whole body was in, but he didn’t remember what could have caused it until he realized that both the grey man and the crying woman were staring at him as if expecting something more from him.

            His brother, Gustav, the twelfth prince, had ordered him cut, and they had done it. Not these people, but a brutish man who might have made it his life’s work to torture other men. Hans had to look, digging past layers of clothes with mangled fingers, horror gripping him when he had confirmed, indeed, that he had been cut. For a moment, he was frozen with horror and then he was gripped with grief, crushing him into putting his head in his hands and sobbing. A hand touched his foot, reminding him that he was not alone, and he jerked his bearded face up, seeing both the woman and man leaning towards him. “Leave me be!” Hans growled, rashly kicking his foot out to knock the hand away, body screaming at him in protest to stop, lancing pain up into his brain. His addled eyes found the door and he awkwardly bolted for it, new lances tearing into him as he loped out on wrecked feet, a wounded animal escaping by the only open opportunity. He was up on the deck, stars dancing in his eyes, not sure how he found his way out, but blinded momentarily by the afternoon sun on the ocean. The edge of the boat was but a couple of strides away, and it looked like the friendliest death he would be granted.

            Hans wanted to die, after all he’d been through. He wanted to jump into the water and breathe deep until he drowned. If his brothers caught him—and he suspected, rightly, that there were already men after him—they would stop at nothing until he was little more than a slab of meat, wishing for the death they would never grant. As Hans crossed the deck, one stride from the edge, he was tackled down. The man who held him fast was the same man with short grey hair and his neat beard from below.

            “Don’t you dare, son,” he said, exerting a physical power that belied his age, “I know you’re hurt, and I know you’re scared, but don’t you dare.” Familiarity shot through Hans, and he remembered, not a tormentor, but his caretaker from the prison, Egon. The ex-prince’s face convulsed, flashing through emotions as they ran through him; frustration, fear, anger, and sadness, cycling through until he came to pleading. “They’ll come for me. As fast as they can, they’ll send their dogs after me. And they’ll catch me. And nothing you can do will save me from them. Just let me die, please… while I still can?”

            “No,” Egon said, using his weight to keep Hans down until he had his feet under him and was able to lift him from the deck and wrap a vice-like grip around his shoulder, “Don’t give up hope just yet, son. We’re on our way to Arendelle. If anyone can put an end to all of this, it would be Queen Elsa. Come back below deck. We’ll keep you safe; we've got to, or nowhere's safe for us, either.”

            Like a child, Egon led Hans back down to the storeroom, only a few of the crew having paid any attention to his break for the ledge, and none thinking more of it than need be. The ex-prince needed time to process what had happened to him, but once put back into bed was overcome by exhaustion and pain, sleeping as though he were already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite sure everyone has their particular versions of the Princes of the Southern Isles, so, until we have a cannon list, I suppose that mine will work for me.  
> Thanks for reading, because its totally new to me to put it out there. I'm not even sure if replying through inbox will post replies to the comments or not. New. Decidedly new.


	3. Lashing

Princess Anna’s life in the last year had become fuller than she would have ever imagined; years of hearing little more than her own feet in the empty halls, her own voice supplying the voices of dolls or paintings, and the sound of silence when outside of her sister’s blue door. The attaining of lofty goals from having a relationship with her sister again, to having found romantic love, and even to having left the gates open, was like living in a dream world come true.

            Only three months before, during a ball for the coming of spring, Kristoff had proposed. Olaf and Sven cried for thirty minutes together as soon Anna had accepted. It was much different from the proposal she had received and accepted before; if what she had felt for the prince of the Southern Isles had been as fast as lightning, bright and dazzling, what Anna felt for Kristoff was more like the Northern Lights: it lasted much longer, was much more wondrous, and never heralded destruction or storms. She had a ring this time as well, presented at the time of his asking: a beautiful, delicate golden hoop with an intricate flowering setting for the stones, six triangular jade stones surrounding a diamond. Her surprise at such a beautiful, valuable ring was nothing she hid, and when Kristoff had the chance, he explained that the Queen had only helped to commission the ring. He had worked selling ice in the outer towns to buy the ring himself. With a small portion of comedy, she realized that she didn’t really need to know. Just that she loved it and him and was ready to start their married life together.

            Particularly, she wanted Kristoff beside her when she slept. Although she was ever yet the maiden, and was partially naïve to what a wedding night really meant, the idea of having a sleeping Kristoff to ward off the nightmare was calming. Of the nightmare, Anna tried not to dwell. She didn’t talk about it with Elsa or run to her sister’s—at long last—comforting embrace. She wouldn’t, because it was about the freezing. After love had thawed her out, Anna barely gave the minute she spent as solid ice a second thought, until the dream began. Sometimes it varied.

            Sometimes, Anna was running towards Elsa and Hans, but she was freezing too fast, and never made it in time to save her sister. She would watch as Hans graphically hacked into Elsa, one blow to render her immobile, one to savage the ice with blood, and one last stab to pierce Elsa’s heart. Sometimes, the nightmare was about shattering as she tried to stop Hans’ blade. Sometimes, it was that Anna had frozen, and Elsa, instead of being heartbroken, was impassive, killing Hans and going back to her ice castle to keep Arendelle in an endless winter. Anna would wake holding in a scream. One nightmare, and she couldn’t go back to sleep at all. She would spend the rest of the night or early morning waiting for the sun to melt off the chill she acquired from the lurid dream.

            Anna and Kristoff’s wedding would happen the day after the Summer Solstice, the first night available to them in summer. That was a good two weeks away, but Anna didn’t feel as though she were rushing it. Rushing had only caused problems for her before.

            As she left her room, closing the door, she realized that a great many normal things were already buzzing in the castle. Just in her hallway, two maids walked past with fresh linens and brisk purpose. They smiled at her, but left her un-accosted. Hoping that the Queen would already be awake, Anna went to her sister’s study.

            No luck. If the Queen was up, she was elsewhere.

            Anna’s next target was her fiancé. Checking the rooms he was given to stay in until they were married, she found those were empty. Unable to help the servants much in their daily tasks, she elected to go and look for Kristoff in the town.

 

* * *

 

Egon wasn’t sure how to go about acquiring an audience with Queen Elsa. The ship would dock before sundown in Arendelle, and he and his wife, Linnéa, and their charge would need to be on the list to see the Queen, at least. Somehow, Hans’ fear of being followed had infected the old veteran. Fear wasn’t the word; paranoia was a better fit. In his mind, he could see a force of men storming onto a ship, and through sheer force of will, making it catch their ship. Linnéa had developed the same sense of foreboding.

            The sun was tilting down when the shore came into view, the port of the castle-town glittering in the summer sun. Egon stood on the deck, his wife below with Hans, getting him ready, as best she could, for an audience with the Queen. She dressed him in her husband’s best clothes, which fit him loosely, but came down too short on his legs and arms. Egon’s wife aimed to take scissors to his auburn hair, grown down to touch the plates of his shoulders—which she had cleaned vigorously with salty sea water—and cut it into the style worn by most noblemen, but Hans waved her off and refused her. She did pleat it and let it rest against the back of his neck. Linnéa, who Hans had come to learn was an ex-whore, made enough faces at his beard that he relented when she asked, for the umpteenth time, to neaten it up. The ex-prince told her that he had worn muttonchops, but that he wanted to simply shave it all off.

            She was smarter than to let him use the blade on his own, leaving small sideburns, but otherwise taking his beard down to the skin from ear to ear. It was startling the effect that being clean shaven had on Hans. He acted less like a haggard and dejected prisoner, and more like man who would face his possible death with dignity. No trace of a smile touched his young face. His eyes were melancholy. She was struck by just how… noble he looked, even thin and underfed.

            Egon came down when they were to dock, and scrutinized the man he had rescued with unconcealed bemusement. As though he didn’t understand what he saw. The three of them left the ship without much ado, wheeling the cart they had packed onto the ship down a plank onto the streets. Egon spoke quietly with his wife, his hands on the reigns, both of them riding on the little bench at the front, Hans in amongst their belongings wrapped in a blanket. He told her that he thought they should find someplace to stay the night, leave their things there and take Hans to the castle when the sun went down. She had nothing to add to his plan, which surprised him. They found an Inn at the edge of the castle-town, paid a stable boy to keep their cart packed, and waited for the last light of the day before setting out toward the castle.

 

* * *

 

            To Hans, they seemed to have walked the length and breadth of the earth before the lights of the castle of Arendelle came into view. Both Egon and his wife had taken to supporting the ex-prince as he walked along—not without protests at first—but let go when he murmured something about not looking like an invalid before his executor. His weakness came from his injuries. Walking had made it feel as though a Hellish chafing ran from his toes to his navel. He might as well have been wearing pants woven with glass, as irritated as his skin was.

             In the marketplace before the castle, Hans, Egon, and Linnéa encountered a crowd—the festivities of the first day of summer were to begin soon, and trading had already picked up. Hans wasn’t a crowd sort of man, not only preferring to be at the front of it, but not liking the proximity of so many bodies. Compounded by the paranoia of being chased, Hans felt a current of anxiety begin in him; the bounty hunters could be any one of these unfamiliar faces. His hands shook, naked feeling without gloves, until they found fistfuls of his shirt to hold onto.

            Linnéa noticed first, and being a woman of astute intuition, said candidly to Hans, “Don’t think about them being here, being anybody. Think about how hard you’ll be to find in this mess, about being anybody.” It wasn’t bad advice, and it was calming to imagine himself being another face in the crowd, but nothing short of a full pardon or death would really calm his nerves. Chattering voices made it hard to keep an ear out for shadowing footsteps, the brush of another person as they passed too close made him think of the poisons that could drop him in a moment, wherein the bounty hunters could scoop him up and take him back to his brothers. Back to the men who he should never have had to fear, but who had tortured him, all of them choosing their own form. It seemed like all thought paths went back to that. He took the woman’s advice and pictured himself different from what the supposed bounty hunters were looking for; Hans imagined that he was thin man, tall but having a frame meant for more weight, that he would have hair much longer than anyone in Arendelle had ever seen on him, that the face that was handsome once would be much thinner and more feral, his chin elongated by the lack of sideburns, and his eyes sunken in with a pervading tiredness to them. He would look different than even the last prince to see him had seen him. He would look different than Princess Anna or Queen Elsa had seen him. And that was a comfort. In the crowd, Hans was simply a gaunt, tall man in slightly billowy, slightly short clothes.

            They were weaving their way through the marketplace, making good time, when his borrowed boot, a size tighter than he wore, caught a table leg and he and all the merchandise went cluttering to the cobblestones. He hit awkwardly, and the pain was immediate, from the assaulted toes to the injured fingers and now bleeding palms, his whole front hitting before his face could. It was so stunning that all he heard for the next fifteen seconds or so was the sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears. The merchant, he heard as his hearing returned and the roar of his blood died down, was squawking already about his broken things. Egon was apologizing in a gush, he and Linnéa lifting the table first, Egon setting the textiles, the baskets, the wooden figurines back up while his wife lifted Hans to his feet, where he wobbled with half a mind to vomit all over the table and the merchandise. The retching urge was one of the things he had learned to control in the last year, however, keeping him from adding insult to injury.

            Egon was trying to give him what money he could spare to cover the broken things, but the merchant would have nothing but exactly what they cost—likely grossly overestimated—and he would come after Hans to get it. Tense words were flying very quickly until the merchant pushed at Egon to get to Hans, the veteran pushing back. They were shoving, Linnéa almost dropping her support of Hans as she shouted vulgarities at the pair of them for fighting. Didn’t they know that the guards would be coming?

            Someone else beat the guards to it, crashing through the throng of spectators to break Egon away from the merchant and put two strong hands out on either’s chest to keep them apart. Blonde hair lay on his forehead, a strong frame with no sign of malnourishment or underuse, about the size of Egon, and a familiarity to him in conjunction to Princess Anna. His name escaped Hans until the clatter of hooves and the appearance of a reindeer heralded the arrival of someone who said the name; “Kristoff?”

            Princess Anna slid off the back of the great huffing beast just as more soldiers skidded to a halt behind the reindeer. She was the thing that let the air out of the merchant and the situation. Kristoff was able to drop his hands as the merchant backed up and Egon, scrappy old veteran that he was, backed up as well, realizing who she was, though he was a stranger to the kingdom.

            “What’s going on here?” she asked, voice like a clarion. All he could do was stare at her, Linnéa blocking half of him where she had unconsciously put herself between Hans and Egon. The merchant started babbling right away, saying how nice it was to see the Princess, and that he was so sorry that she and Kristoff had had to bother with breaking up a misunderstanding. “…That man there knocked down my whole display,” the merchant said, pointing at Hans, who quickly dropped his eyes and bowed his head somewhat, “I cannot sell broken things, and I need the money to live on until harvest. This man says he is the other’s father and offered me only a pittance to cover the broken things. Look at them! They look nothing alike, and that woman isn’t old enough to be the man’s mother. He’s got his own money, certainly. I just need the money to pay for what I cannot sell.”

            On and on the merchant went, and Kristoff joined in saying that Hans and Egon should buy the things broken in Hans’ fall, but no word had come from Anna. Hans had a sick feeling in his stomach that Anna was looking at him too closely. Footsteps on the cobbles, and Linnéa moving aside like someone was getting closer, until Hans saw a dress hem and toes of shining feminine boots.

            “Look at me,” she said in a small voice, ignoring the confused tone of Kristoff’s voice calling her name. Hans felt his stomach drop, but the small ounce of pride in him wouldn’t face any of this as a coward. Hans looked up, shoulders squaring in a royal way, green eyes locking on the pair of blue, which widened at the sight of him. Princess Anna’s brows drew together, but her eyes were just as wide and staring as before, almost horrified. She might have started to say something, but her mouth pressed into a firm line.

            Hans was expecting it before it came, but Anna’s punch still hurt. The slight crunch of his nose sounded like it had been re-broken—a small part of his mind thought about hoping it was straight again—and a burst of blue dots blinded him, painful but not as bad as the pain throughout his whole body. Certainly not the most painful thing he had gone through in the last year, and not the strongest punch. His hand went up to his face as he staggered back, a fount of blood trying to pass through his fingers. Linnéa was back between him and her, shouting and keeping the Princess at arm’s length until Kristoff had seized her, Egon and his wife caught up by the troop of soldiers.

            “Bring them to the castle and put them in the dungeon,” Anna ordered, angry and rightfully so, Hans supposed. Before she was out of earshot, however, Hans heard her say to Kristoff, “It’s Hans.” Incredulous, Kristoff looked back, partly scowling and partly bewildered. The rough hands of the guards seized hold of Hans, and he, Egon, and Linnéa were pushed along behind the Princess, a reindeer, and Kristoff.

__

* * *

 

            Sven’s muscles underneath Anna’s legs seemed like stone wrapped in fur, and he clopped along at a sober pace, picking up on the mood of the pair. Kristoff let his arms rest around Anna’s waist, but neither of them had spoken since Kristoff had asked if it really was Hans, and Anna had answered yes. There was a lot to process for both of them, but more for Anna.

            Firstly, Hans looked _horrible_. Haggard and frail were good adjectives for his pale, drawn visage, once so full of life and blushing with health. The last year had not been easy on him, she guessed. It wasn’t in her nature to hold a grudge, but the moment she saw Hans, all Anna could think about was how he left her to freeze to death, how he told her that she would die before she had a chance to save Elsa, how she had had to choose between her own life and her sister’s, how he looked as he got closer to Elsa and raised the sword… how it felt to freeze solid. All of these things came from the Hans of a year ago, and it was that Hans that Anna was sure still lived in the shell he was now. So, no matter how bad he looked now, no matter how bad the last year had been for him, Anna had it in her mind that she would trust nothing that he said.

            As the guards branched off with the three prisoners, Anna and Kristoff continued through the castle, her quick stride forcing him to keep up the pace or get left behind. Sven followed, but he seemed to be giving up the idea and dropping back. Finally, Kristoff caught Anna’s hand, halting their movement.

            “Where are we going?” Kristoff asked. Anna’s mouth pressed into a line as she looked from him to a door down the hallway. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to go tell Elsa.”

            “But why are you going to tell Elsa? What do you want her to do about him?”

            Anna frowned, realizing that she had no real plan other than burst into the Queen’s rooms and tell her that the man who tried to kill her—who they had received word had been executed for his crimes by his brothers’ demands—was in their dungeon. Her fight drained out of her, eyes finding Kristoff’s face and getting moist. “I don’t know… I just can’t stand that he’s back.”

            Kristoff pulled her into a hug, her head against his chest, one of the only places where she felt totally safe. “Maybe we do tell her that Hans is here and locked away,” Kristoff offered, “but we suggest that she hold an audience tomorrow to find out why he’s here. In public, maybe it won’t be so easy for him to manipulate anyone.” The “anyone” in that statement really meaning the pair of sisters.

            “Okay,” Anna finally said, taking his hand and walking steadily down the hall to Elsa’s rooms.

  

* * *

         

Queen Elsa still suffered, somewhat, from her social anxiety and former isolation. Anna’s unshaking faith in her helped, always, but the moment her sister was out of sight, the worms of doubt and fear wiggled through the cracks in her mind. She was a very good leader, having been tutored by her parents before and up to their deaths four years ago, but she was still impressionable. Love had thawed the more obvious frozen places in her heart and mind, the places connected to the familial love between her and her sister, the ability to converse with others, and the need for her gloves, but there were still places locked in ice within her. She saw Anna’s happiness with Kristoff, was glad for them, and was wistful of a love like that for her own, but Elsa didn’t believe herself capable of navigating romantic love. Too long had she been a prisoner to the fear of touch, of being so close to someone that it would hurt if she ever disappointed them, hurt them, or lost them. These things she had been able to determine when suitor offers trickled back in, brave kingdoms wanting to marry their princes to the Ice Queen, none of them appealing to her.

            She would rather live and die alone than live with someone who she couldn’t love, found herself fearing, and would ultimately drive away with her aloofness. Thoughts like these had been ever-present the closer Anna’s wedding got.

            There was a knock at her sitting room door, and Elsa left her place on the settee to answer it herself. Anna’s face alarmed her when she saw it, pale eyes going from sister to future brother-in-law, seeing nearly the same expression on both. She stood aside, let the pair enter and sit on the blue-cushioned love seat before shutting the door and sitting across from them. Trying not to think the worst, she put on a weak smile and asked, “Having trouble with the guest list?”

            Briefly, both Anna and Kristoff looked confused. Anna shook her head, “No… Um…” Kristoff held her hand like he was Anna’s only anchor to the world. Elsa felt her brows constrict.

            “Hans,” Anna began again, the name like a curse among the pair of them, “… he’s in our dungeons.” Something like a slight wave of relief let the air out of Elsa. That was the least of the horrors she had imagined. But right after, confusion took over. “But isn’t he—,” Elsa started.

            “Dead? I thought so, too,” Anna said, frowning, “But it’s the truth. He’s alive, and he’s in our dungeons. Tell her, Kristoff.” Elsa looked to him, and he nodded, adding, “I didn’t get as good of a look as Anna, but I saw him.”

            Elsa stood, turning away from them, needing a minute to process without them seeing her reaction. At first, she was blank aside from a gnawing remembrance of thinking Anna was frozen solid forever. Next, a part of her felt a guilty twinge of relief. Elsa had sent Hans back to the Southern Isles to face his brothers’ judgment, not thinking that they would execute him. She hadn’t wanted him dead, even if he had wanted her dead. Having the power to kill others on her own had made her the least bloodthirsty monarch in Arendelle’s history. Life was something she had the power to give—Olaf and Marshmallow—or take—the Duke of Wiseltown’s men. Knowing that Hans had not actually died as his brothers’ announcement said took away some of the troubling weight of believing she had sent him to his death that had been on her since.

            “Well,” she said, turning back around, “I gather you have a plan.”

 

* * *

 

Another night in a dungeon.

            What he wouldn’t have given to go back to sleeping in feather mattresses with pillows and blankets of rich softness; Hans thought about what he had done to get there, and knew he would have given up his ploy to rule Arendelle all on his own. It would stand to reason that sleeping on stone was familiar enough by now that Hans could have done it anywhere, but he found that he could do little else than stand with his back to a corner and his eyes facing the bars. When his legs started to shake and he needed to sit, he did so by making himself as small a target as he could, even if it made him uncomfortable to sit as such. Memories of nights spent in terror and dread came back to him. His eyes began getting heavy in the wee hours of the morning, until sleep, and a nightmare, stole over him.

            _He was in a courtyard, square and beautiful except for the large post that had been erected in the center of a square, stone platform. Above him was a balcony, set up like a gallery for onlookers, including his brothers, Vilppu to Gustav, and several eager looking courtiers. Hans was being taken to the post, which had an ominous ring at the top. His manacles were tied to the ring using rope, though the girth was big enough that he couldn’t have reached around it and touched his fingers together. He had been stripped to the waist before they had secured him with his face to the gallery._

_From the balcony, Vilppu’s voice boomed over the courtyard, the dream distorting all but a few words: “thirty lashes.” He was turned to face the well-used pillory, the rope twisting close to the ring. His eyes caught that detail, his nose caught the scent of blood, sweat, and something else. The courtyard became so quiet that a bug on a blade of grass would have sounded like a monster crashing through trees. When the whip was uncoiled, and when its length dropped heavily to the stone cobbles, it sounded like thunder._

_The first lash stole his breath and felt like it had cleaved meat from bone. The second was far enough apart for Hans to feel sweat trickle into the fresh wound. Bile rose from his stomach at the third strike, and his heartbeat pounded his ears like a company of drummers. He was conscious for each lash, though his field of vision had gone red and black somewhere around fifteen. In his head, he counted along, and when thirty was up, he expected to be left alone to die of the pain. A thirty-first lash cracked across him, no voice telling the wielder to halt. Four more followed slowly before a voice did call out that it was enough._

            The dream, or memory, as it had turned out to be, was vivid enough that Hans awoke in a sweat, the scars running across his back throbbing with such ferocity that he could have given a detailed description of where each ugly weal was on his back. He stumbled over to the waist bucket and wretched up everything in his stomach, which wasn’t much. Breathless, Hans sat against the wall and let the coolness of the stone calm his feverish heat.

* * *

           

Elsa usually dressed quietly without the help of her maids. She had become so unaccustomed to wearing the cloth creations of thread and needle that all the dresses in her possession stayed in their closet. She would stand before her mirror and fashion her own gown of ice, ice so finely woven that it acted as cloth did. It was usually thin on her arms and shoulders, allowing for movement. She usually had a train of gossamer-like ice crystals, and aside from those staples, she tended to look different every day. A maid would come in to pleat her hair however she asked, if she did, sometimes foregoing the simple signature braid for a series of complex ones wound about her head—those were usually left to the maid. She liked to keep it simple, however, and the braid seemed most common, dropped over one shoulder the way she liked it. Elsa never wore her hair plainly down—it didn’t befit a queen—though it was thick and slightly wavy, and fell to the small of her back, and would have looked gorgeous down.

            The morning of the audience with Hans found Elsa already awake and dressed, her face turned to the tardy sun and arms crossed. Kristoff’s suggestion that Hans be dealt with publicly caused Elsa to sleep uneasily with nervousness fluttering about her stomach like a swarm of bugs. She had awoken to find a thin layer of frost patterned across her bed and on the ceiling. She began trying to tell herself it was silly to be nervous about talking to a supposedly dead man who had tired and almost succeeded in killing her and taking her kingdom.

            Perhaps it wasn’t that silly. Then again, Anna had tried to stress that the Hans she had imprisoned was a sorry shadow of the man he used to be, by the looks of him, likely maltreated over the last five or six months. Who knew? It had been a year. How long ago had that missive arrived?

            A knock at her door let in the maid who re-brushed the Queen’s hair and wound it up like Elsa asked. The maid left in time for breakfast to be served and Anna and Kristoff to arrive. Elsa was glad to see both looking stately, like the three of them would be a united front before the former Prince. Anna had also coiled her hair up, rather than her pigtails, looking older and perhaps a little haggard, like she hadn’t slept well. Kristoff was well-dressed, blonde hair combed and not smelling strongly of his reindeer.

            “How soon can we get this over with?” Anna asked fairly quickly, having only just sat down to be served a cup of tea and a biscuit. Kristoff looked at her with what Elsa could only term as sympathy.

            “Just before noon,” Elsa answered, having thought about it already. Anna let out a breath, drinking tea and managing not to look too miserable. Elsa wondered at her sister’s strong reaction, attributing it to the old sentiment “Hell hath no fury…” After all, Anna had been the one to think a night’s infatuation was true love, had accepted a marriage proposal, and had been betrayed all of that, left to die, and then sacrificed her life to save Elsa from Hans. Thinking about all those things again made her feel like screaming at their prisoner, perhaps getting her own punch in. She wasn’t angry enough to want him dead, however, and the thought never actually crossed her mind. Kristoff and Elsa made small talk, Anna uncharacteristically introverted, all three passing through breakfast absentmindedly. Surely, they had the same thing keeping their thoughts occupied: Hans.

 

* * *

 

The palace guards what came to collect Egon, Linnéa, and Hans, seemed as quiet and reposed as if they were to march prisoners marked for death. It boded ill. The veteran had had an easier time sleeping than did his charge, and his wife never complained one way or the other for herself, even if she looked slightly stricken that Hans was put in a separate cell.

            Egon marched after Hans, his wife following him, and they were led up through the castle’s bowels to what he saw as lavish suites and rooms. Having lived most his life on campaign or poor, Egon had to hold in a whistle. The floors were polished so that one might actually see themselves mirrored beneath them. The woodwork around the doorframes and banisters were also polished—not so much that one could not take in the detailed work of knots, figures, and patterns for the luster. Where the wood became covered in paint, or in cloth—Egon couldn’t be sure without touching it, such was its effect—it was just as beautiful.

            They were brought into a large room with a vaulted ceiling, and to either side of an isle stood grim-faced people. Egon was surprised. Was this a public hearing? Why?

            At the end of the room was a dais which raised a throne of somewhat understated authority up by only two steps. He was impressed not by the throne, or the people, but by the Queen who sat upon it, alone on the dais. She was beautiful, Egon thought, and regal. Shades of white and blue seemed to constitute every aspect of her appearance; hair so pale blonde it could have been the color of dawn on snow, skin a shade darker than ivory, a gown that looked crafted from a winter’s wind. Linnéa, he heard, sucked in an appreciative breath. In front of him, he heard nothing from Hans except the tall man’s boots hitting the floor.

            Egon finally pulled his eyes from Queen Elsa long enough to look at the couple who stood to the right side of the monarch, the woman as beautiful but perhaps not as regally dignified. Remembering that Queen Elsa’s sister, Anna, was the one Hans had supposedly deceived, Egon understood that the look on her face was from grievances past, not present, and was not aimed at him.

            They were made to stand shoulder to shoulder, lined up before the Queen. Egon let his eyes slide to see how Hans was doing, but the ex-prince’s face was schooled in calm, resigned dignity. He looked to his wife, who looked awed but nervous. Finally, he looked to the Queen and Princess.

         

* * *

  

From upon the throne, Queen Elsa looked at the three prisoners brought before her, at first searching for a forth to be brought in, unable to recognize the ex-prince Hans in any of them. With well-disguised horror, she realized that the tallest man—his longer auburn hair and shortened sideburns not the most significant change—was Hans. He was too thin, wore clothes too short and too wide for him, and, despite his dignity, was haggard and haunted looking. She had the urge to stand up, to get closer; to see for herself what hollowness now ruled his green eyes, all because she had no idea who this man was—he wasn’t the same one she sent on a ship back to his kingdom.

            Elsa didn’t move one inch off her throne, however. Her eyes went to Anna, who seemed ready to trundle him back off to the kingdom that had supposedly hung him, her fists balled tightly and slightly hidden in her skirt. Kristoff had set his jaw, but had, perhaps, a sliver pity for the ex-fiancé of his soon-to-be-bride. With a deliberate release of her breath, she looked to the other two accompanying Hans.

            “Well,” Elsa began, her voice ringing in the silence of the room, clear as a bell, “Have you anything to say for yourself?” No charges had been read, no repeat of Hans’ crimes. It was not him who spoke first, though his face had gone seemingly blank; it was the other man, shorter, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard, body obviously well-maintained so that the clothes Hans wore would have fit him perfectly.

            “Pardon me, your Grace,” he said, though the words came out of his mouth like roughly chewed food, “But I can explain better than he can, I believe. If I may…?” Elsa wondered at his words, but consented with a slow nod of her head, keeping her eyes on the more valuable prisoner.

            “See—I mean—It was that I had been employed by a man in a fancy suit one day, about five months ago. He’d be the type to be employed by someone just under you, your Grace, like a Prince. He tells me there’s someone his boss wants kept alive. All I had to do was feed him, empty his p—chamber pot,” the older man had amended his speech in the presence of a Queen, Elsa supposed. “Patch him up from time to time…”

            Hans’ face dropped for the first time, and the Queen felt a small pang of mortification. How often was from “time to time” and what did it entail? The speaker continued, “Anyway, a few days ago, I realized who he was. His brothers had been keeping him secret, dealing out punishments they saw fit, and when… well, I had had enough, and so had he. I packed up my house, put my wife on the cart, and drove it to the prison, then jimmied Hans out and onto a ship.

            “We came here to you because… well, you seem kinder than the Princes, and I was hoping you might protect me and my wife for bringing him here. Sure, he did you wrong, but I can say—honest truth, in my opinion— that he’s more than paid for that.”

            Nothing came to mind aside from confusion. She had thought death was too harsh a punishment, but the idea that he had been tortured, as the man’s brief story suggested. A response leapt off her tongue unbidden, words that she supposed were directed at Hans: “Is this true? Do you believe the punishment fit the crime?” His eyes raised, dignity composing him again, “No.”

            Murmurs went through the crowd. The surprise she felt played on her face. Off to the side, Anna made an undignified sound and started forward. Kristoff took hold of her arm, face grim. “No?” Elsa asked.

            “No, Queen Elsa, the punishment did not fit the crime,” Hans repeated, his voice quietly held in check, loud enough only to be heard, not to rail against the injustices done him. “I request that you—and you alone—pass judgment on me. I tried to take your life, not my brothers’; they had their fun. If you want the punishment to fit the crime, I suggest a swift death; that is what I had aimed to deal you.”

            Again, muttering in the crowd, only now hissing with anger and indignation. Elsa couldn’t look away from Hans. There was a calmness to him—a stillness in his body—but in his eyes there seemed to be a fire, desperate, pleading, slightly mad. She didn’t know what to make of it; didn’t know how to handle being asked to end his life. His fellow prisoner turned to him, eyes wide, saying, “You don’t mean that, son! Surely there are better things—,” Hans cut him off, though it was harder to hear as the muttering began to louden, “Better than what? Rotting away in a cage? No,” Hans returned his gaze to the Queen, “Kill me. Do not send me back to my people. Do not let the men they have surely sent after me haul more than a corpse back to the Southern Isles.”

            From the corner, Anna’s voice rose up, which was startling in its confidence, “Why shouldn’t we hand you back?” The room quieted in light of the Princess’ voice, “Elsa doesn’t owe you anything. I don’t. We were just fine and dandy thinking… thinking you were dead.” Elsa heard the confidence leaking out of Anna, her anger fading in the spotlight, though what made her sister’s irritation so strong, Elsa didn’t know. Hans didn’t seem to expect this from Anna, either. His response was still dignified, however.

            “You’re right to hate me, Anna,” he said, though it was followed by so many howls from the crowd that he had to pause, “I cannot even apologize without it sounding like ambitious groveling,… so, I say, the decision does not rest in your hands. It is your Queen’s right to decide.” The room again grew loud, and Elsa became so frustrated with the crowd and with Hans that she found herself on her feet.

            “We will discuss this matter in private. Please, return to your homes and your jobs,” the crowd again muttered, but it was not the rebellious muttering of a mob. Just of wagging, gossiping tongues. She looked to the guards who flanked the three prisoners, and commanded, “Bring those three up to my sitting room.”

            Turning on one ice-hewn heel, her train coiling about her, she walked to the door off to side of the dais, gesturing for Anna and Kristoff to go through first. They waited on the other side and fell into step behind her. Neither said a word until Elsa wheeled on Anna, starting the conversation she’d meant to have with her sister since the night before, when Anna seemed too unsettled by Hans’ arrival. “What is wrong, Anna?” she asked, not without force, but mostly pleading, “You worried me to death last night, and you’ve been so unlike yourself. So tell me why, please? What is it about Hans that has you so worked up?”

            It must not have been a good time, because though Anna was momentarily surprised, she seemed to become angry again, lips pressed into a firm line, brows furrowing. She almost said something, but, seeing that she wouldn’t get an answer in the present, Elsa turned away, walking quickly down the short hall and up a flight of stairs. Kristoff brought Anna along without a word, though the pair had to be held bodily together because Anna would have walked in a direction opposite than the Queen’s apartments.

            Having her sister angry with her was disturbing. If Elsa had one thing to count on, it was that Anna loved her and had faith in her always. She’d proven that when she sacrificed herself, freezing solid rather than letting Hans kill her. There shouldn’t be any doubt that Elsa loved her sister, either. When Hans told the Queen that Anna had succumbed to the frozen heart, Elsa had hit her knees. In that moment, no one needed a blade to kill her. All the isolation, all the fear, all the attempts at control had been because she was afraid of hurting her sister again. From that moment that she saw Anna’s small body flying through the air, with nothing to catch her, and being too slow to keep her safe, Elsa’s life had been about keeping those she could hurt at a safe distance. Anna wouldn’t push her away over Hans, Elsa resolved.

            The last step on her suites’ landing, Elsa paused, looking down at Kristoff and Anna following her. She set her shoulders, cleared her mind of the past, and went into her rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one more chapter complete and one in the works after this one, so, updates might take a little longer.  
> They do tend to get more long-winded.  
> Thanks again for reading.


	4. Stocks

Hans slept deeply, dreamlessly, his body finally so exhausted that it relented and let the restful kind of sleep steal back over him. It helped that he was given a bed, cotton sheets and a wool-padded quilt, that his room had a door instead of cell bars. He had space enough to light a lamp on a bedside table, hang clothes—if he acquired more—and walk one way to another. There was no window in the room, a suggestion of Egon’s, and nothing more dangerous than the matches he could use to light the lamp, which he left burning all night. He felt clean, as well, having scrubbed himself vigorously for a good half an hour after their meeting with the Queen. The only person he allowed into the bath room was Linnéa; she’d already seen the damage done his body and was particularly gentle with him.

            The meeting had been the last conscious thought he had as he had fallen asleep.

            _Queen Elsa swept into her sitting room in a natural, regal manner, pausing to look at the three manacled prisoners before passing them all for the shuttered balcony on the far side of the room. Anna and Kristoff followed her, though neither moved farther than shutting the door behind them. Without turning around, the Queen said to her audience, “Sit.”_

_Egon, Linnéa, and Hans sat down on the same couch, and how he ended up in the middle was muddled in his brain, but it felt safer than being close to either Anna and Kristoff or Elsa alone. Again, Anna and Kristoff didn’t move, though Hans thought the latter only did so out of support for his fiancé. When Elsa had to look over her shoulder, at her sister, Anna finally condescended to sit, though she dragged her feet and chose the furthest chair possible, Kristoff remaining standing, with one hand on a thin shoulder._

_“I will not put you to death,” Elsa began, back still turned, but words aimed at the only one who was actively seeking his own demise. She let that blunt statement sink in, and Hans was the alone in not being relieved that the option was off the table, feeling a bubble of hysteria try to sneak up into his throat. His brothers would have already sent men after him. If Elsa decided to send him back to the Southern Isles, he would take a flying leap off that balcony in a heartbeat._

_The Queen had turned around, her blue eyes sliding over them. “You or your companions will tell me all the ‘punishments’ you suffered at the hands of your brothers. I will not make you speak of them in front of… anyone else, but I will not be asked to shelter you without full disclosure.” A sick knot squished the hysteria back down. Elsa moved away from the balcony, stride carrying her to the back of the settee across from Hans, Egon, and Egon’s wife. Feeling his lips tingle with numbness, he realized he had pressed them together tightly in an effort to hold back the sick and the hysteria._

_“When that is done, you’ll either find yourselves on a boat, or in sanctuary.” The Queen, face set in a dignified mask, wasn’t bluffing. She again gave pause let the statement sink in, quietly analyzing their faces before asking of Egon and his wife, “Now, who are the two of you?”_

            In the dim light of his lamp, Hans found himself staring at the wall opposite, body nearly paralyzed by the lethargy of good sleep. Unable to remember when he had opened his eyes, awareness was something that had only recently come back to him. Nothing much was really on his mind, aside from the off-hand thought that sleeping in a bed was a luxury he’d never take for granted again. His eyes shifted to the small flame in the lamp, following the shadows cast by flickers of the light. What was truly peaceful about the bed and the blankets and the actual door was the safety of it—the civility. This room was not a room that some stranger would enter in the dark hours of the night, not the kind of walls that would catch blood beat out of wounds, hold handprints that were bloody from having the fingernails removed. This was a room that was meant to be restful. Hans didn’t even notice falling back to sleep, entranced by the shadows on the walls.

            _“Anna, Kristoff, if you would be so kind as to escort Linnéa to the Servants’ wing? See to it that she is fed, given a chance to bathe, and a change of clothes,” Elsa said, having been introduced to the veteran and his wife. To the woman, she added kindly, “Your husband won’t be too long. You’ll be asked to wait for him there.” Linnéa nodded, sent one last look at her husband and the invalid she’d nursed on the boat, then followed Anna and Kristoff as they left. The Queen’s gaze followed them out, but returned to the two men after a moment. She looked somewhat pensive, and moved to sit on the settee, settling down properly, similar to how she had sat on the throne._

_Hans knew what was expected of him in the conversation, but he was no more ready to talk about the evils done him in the dungeon by his brothers’ command than he was to look up from his folded, nail-less hands in his lap. Egon looked only slightly more ready to talk about it. “Will you start, Hans?” asked a gentle voice, coaxing his eyes to meet the source’s eyes. Hans frowned, face creasing in the over-used places, having lines of suffering that belied his youthful age. No sound came from his throat, even if his lips parted to speak._

_“Your Majesty—beggin’ your pardon, of course—but I don’t believe this be the type of things one ever tells. The things… they’re things you take to the grave,” Egon said, trying for mercy, Hans reasoned._

_The Queen’s eyes didn’t leave Hans’ face, “I used to think covering up a problem and burying feelings was the best way to make it go away, to control it. I’m certain you remember how that turned out for me, Hans. Negotiating with me will not be possible unless I know everything; I will not harbor you otherwise.” The impasse again; Queen Elsa did not intend to run blindly into the crosshairs of a bolt aimed at Hans’ heart. If she was standing up against the Princes of the Southern Isles, she would know why._

_Egon opened his mouth to speak, but Hans’ voice rushed out and gave the three pause, unprepared for him to begin, “They started with disowning me and locking me away.” Hans was as surprised that he had said it as Elsa and Egon were, but he knew the stakes. He had one chance to find refuge. In a way, his mouth took over, his mind checking out while he enumerated the “grievances” that Elsa needed to hear, the verbal torrent coming easier, like it was his innards being pulled out through his mouth at a fast pace._

_“That would have been enough for my eldest brother, but the next spoke up, and on and on. All twelve wanted their own revenge, I suppose. The second eldest wanted to make me a pauper in jail, so he did. The third wanted me flogged, so I was.” Hans stood, needing, though his mind was checked out, to release some nervous tension in a short pace. The manacles were still on, which made the attempt at pulling his shirt up his back difficult, but he had to. This was the truth, ugly as it was, and having been pushed into a corner to get it out of him brought the hysteria back. “I counted thirty-five, though it was only to have been thirty in the beginning. I’ve never had a chance to look at them,” a laugh escaped him as the shirt finally was pulled off his back, over his head, and rested on his arms, pale and malnourished. His eyes found Elsa’s, and without the full participation of his mind, he was unable to process the look in them. “The fourth, Jerrik, had me in the stocks for three days, in the fall. It got so cold at night that I was sure I had frostbite. And the people; how a mob can turn on you… Rotten food, mud, excrement, all hurled at me daily, clogging up the marks on my back. The fifth punishment, from my brother Aleksander, was conspired with the others to fake my death so I could be moved somewhere they controlled. They said a hanging would do. I was dressed up around a harness, led out to the gallows, and was hung by the neck until I fainted from lack of air.” Pausing to indicate the fainter, lighter scar across his neck, Hans stopped long enough to feel a spasm of pain pass down him, lingering from six months of maltreatment. Egon stood, coming at the ex-prince in two hesitant steps as if he were going to try and soothe the madness out of his ward._

_“No,” Hans said, eyes going to Elsa again, “She said full disclosure if I want to stay here. So here it is, my Queen—I was tortured. They put hot brands against my skin, here and here. They took my fingernails and toenails, but not before sticking knives under them. I was beat, starved, humiliated, and nearly drowned. I was made to sit in a hot cell with my own filth choking my nose and my mouth. And as if those things weren’t enough—,” Hans gripped the button of his trousers as best he could with his mangled fingers, about to reveal the last horror they were able to inflict._

_Egon’s fist banged into the side of Hans’ temple, and for a time, he knew nothing._

            Here in the dark, Hans could be glad that the veteran had knocked him unconscious before he could hastily alienate the Queen and humiliate himself more. When he had come to, Egon had replaced the clothes he had tried to discard and was conversing quietly with Queen Elsa. She told him that for the time being, he would be granted a room, clothes, and shelter until those men arrived who were supposed to take him back to the Southern Isles. Hans had stumbled out of the room with Egon’s support. The married couple was given a single room, both cleaning up nicely, neither looking much like the veteran and ex-whore they were. Linnéa had helped Hans bathe, the only one to do so, and Hans settled in to sleep in his Spartan room.

      

* * *

     

Anna had spent most of the day trying to avoid thinking about sleep. She spent most of the night trying to avoid it as well, but eventually succumbed. She dreamed more vividly of the freezing than she had the night before, or any night before _._

_Her fingers as she had turned to ice had hurt as if they had been cut off, but still, she had raised her hand to the sword that was descending on Elsa. She froze solid just as the blade came down between two of her fingers, shattering it and throwing Hans back. Love will thaw. Love will thaw._ Love will thaw. _The dream deviated from memory just at the moment she was supposed to come back to life. Instead, a hand touched Elsa’s shoulder as she sobbed against Anna, and Elsa turned to him. Hans, though not as he was then, but as he was now, thin, disheveled, unkempt. His eyes held true sadness, and to Anna’s horror, he pulled Elsa close to him. The ice beneath her—her alone—cracked, and she began to sink to the depths of the fjord, but not before seeing the emotion leave Hans’ eyes for a cruel smile on his lips, a dagger poised at Elsa’s back._

            Anna sprang out of her bed, shaking, crying. Her sister’s voice from that afternoon—asking her what was wrong—came to her mind, and she was overcome with the urge to finally give the answer. The Princess ran from her room without quite meaning to, being drawn to comfort at last, like a child running to their mother in the night, afraid of what was under their bed. Her hand closed around the knob of Elsa’s door, found it locked. Fingernails scraping the wood, she jiggled the knob, knocked, and wept all at once. It took her sister barely a minute to answer the door, but when Elsa did, Anna flung herself inside, arms going to Elsa’s neck, tears welling up and breaking over in a virtual flood.

            “Wha—what’s wrong?!” Elsa asked, holding her sister, but alarmed and bewildered.

            “The dream…!” Anna managed past a sob, “Horrible! I was frozen again, but you and Hans were there! When I was supposed to unfreeze, I didn’t! I went through the ice, and when I did, I saw him holding you, holding a knife to your back!” Not noticing that Elsa had no idea what she was talking about, Anna continued: “We can’t let him stay here! He’s a _snake_ , Elsa. He’ll worm his way into whatever he wants!”

            Elsa held Anna at arm’s length, Anna’s resolve to send Hans away having momentarily cut off her tears. The Queen made a face similar to Hans’ when he had reached for Elsa. Sad. Anna felt horrified. “No. Don’t look at me like that. This is what you wanted me to tell you. This is why I’ve been unlike myself; I keep dreaming of being frozen. I keep seeing you either leave, or get killed, or go insane. He’ll use you, Elsa, and throw you away when he’s done. That’s who he is. Please, please, just send him away…?”

            Again, sadness in Elsa’s eyes, “Anna,” she said, leading the two of them to the settee, “I haven’t forgotten what he did to you and tried to do to me. That’s not why I gave him a room to sleep in. I know it’s no comfort to you that I can forgive him, but it comforts me. I can’t explain it properly. I wish you had told me about the dreams when they first started. Maybe we could have talked about them, and it would have eased your mind somewhat. We can still do that. But don’t take it out on Prince Hans. He’s no more dangerous to me now than Sven or Olaf are. And as for him using me… I doubt that’s within him now. He’s changed—not for good or entirely, but definitely changed.”

            Confused and somewhat deflated, Anna asked, “How can you know that?” The sadness deepened on Elsa’s face until Anna was frowning, sadness creeping into her as well.

            “I can know that because of what his jailer told me… because his brothers castrated him…”

 

* * *

 

Egon was the first and only to knock on Hans’ door in the morning. The veteran was met a moment later by the ex-Prince, who looked relatively… better. The clothes given him by the Queen’s servants fit him well in length —perhaps slightly baggy—though they weren’t fine or princely. He had a pair of boots that fit his feet as well, allowing room for his still-healing toes, and Egon could almost justify a smile at the younger man. Something about the indifferent expression on Hans’ slightly refreshed face gave Egon pause in smiling. In fact, he simply stared at Hans until the latter, eyebrows rising, asked, “What?”

            Egon couldn’t just say what was on his mind: would the prison ever fade away in Hans’ mind, perhaps for something joyous; what did the ex-Prince have left to take pleasure in? However, Egon was fairly skilled at talking while preoccupied, and said, “Nothing. We’ve been asked to breakfast.” Hans nodded and continued out of his room, closing the door behind him. Egon’s eye caught that Hans had tied his hair smoothly at the nape of his neck, having let it part like he must have always done, and the tail end of it laid between his shoulders. Hans again caught Egon looking at him, and while he didn’t ask again, his expression did. “Nothing,” was Egon’s reply, followed by, “Just surprised you didn’t let Linnéa shear you. She does pretty good work.” Egon indicated his own hair with a wave and a smile, though by Hans’ unimpressed look, Egon decided he might not be the most prime of examples.

            “Who were we ‘asked’ to breakfast by?” Hans questioned, changing the subject. Egon let his eyes cut to the side before saying, “The Queen and Princess. One of the butlers already escorted my wife.”

            Egon followed after Hans, who had not looked pleased but walked along the hall with a returning, or never-lost grace, quiet in his own thoughts. Egon took the lead, knowing which dining room they were headed to, letting his mind wander over the woodwork of the castle again.

 

* * *

 

Anna was the first to the table, coppery hair pleated neatly and simply, resting down her front. She wore a simple, breathable summer dress in shades of green. The morning held some residual coolness from the night, so Anna’s shoulders were covered with a shawl of brown yarn, the muted colors fitting her mood well.

            Elsa entered the room and took her place at the head of the table, having had her maid gather all of her pale hair into a series of braids that kept all of the hair back and off of her neck; this, Anna guessed, being the reason the Queen was not the first to the table. Elsa’s blue ice dress was similar to the one she had fashioned first a year ago, though the skirt was heavier and had fullness at the hips that the other lacked. It never escaped Anna that Elsa had a fantastic creativity wherein even the minutest detail was given thought to. Perhaps all that time alone had allowed for an embellishing imagination.

            At any rate, Kristoff was next, escorting the wife of Hans’ former-jailer and now-savior, who to Anna had been introduced as Egon and Linnéa. The wife was dressed plainly but very cleanly. She’d applied a tasteful amount of gifted kohl to her eyes and rouge to her lips and cheeks, and the woman’s hair cinched in a chignon, cleaned to have a light luster, brown and slightly wavy. Anna might have said something about how well the woman looked, well-rested, but Kristoff, groomed and dressed as comfortably as Anna, set down next to her and kissed her cheek, hand on hers, familiar fresh smell of reindeer washing over her. A weight that she had held on her own in the night lifted, and she smiled happily at her fiancé. Kristoff returned the smile, bemused by the release of the tension in her, but glad, Anna supposed, to have her back to normal. And she was, almost. As promised, Elsa and Anna had spent time talking about the nightmares the night before, and just saying them out loud helped, Elsa listening with empathy.

            The four of them were seated and just beginning a small conversation on the weather when Egon and Hans arrived, former sitting by his wife and latter hovering at the end of the table. She looked at Hans in a different light, knowing now that he had, perhaps, bigger issues to overcome than one concerning duping Elsa and stealing away Arendelle. To be gelded by his brothers, betrayed by his family in such a way—Anna could pity him, feel sorry for him, but she wouldn’t weep for what had been done to him, nor had she forgiven him, but she could bear his presence. She could almost see a change in his temperament, like he was drawn in on himself. Without the auburn sideburns and a healthy weight, Hans was long-faced, with a jawline that cut sharp angles at the corners, and a frame that was meant for larger muscles. Green eyes cast down and off to the side, Hans folded himself into the seat at the end of the table.

            “Were the three of you comfortable in your rooms?” Elsa asked, softly breaking the silence. Anna let one of her hands squeeze Kristoff’s, liking the tangible tether to the present, but not necessarily needing it. Linnéa was the first to speak, red lips curving into a gracious smile, “We were, Queen Elsa,” she said, answering for her husband as well. Elsa’s eyes went from the married couple to the lone occupant of the end of the table. Hans cleared his throat and answered, “Yes, thank you.” Even his voice was altered, Anna thought, not in timbre but in mood. It held no more of the fake wonderment, held no smugness or lofty ambition it had when he had left her in that room, but was over and under different by being subdued.

            A regiment of servants filtered in the dining room just before more small talk could be made, and set platters down, most opening without steam or ado. The table was made for more than their sextet, so a butler remained behind after all the rest had filtered back out to move dishes from one end of the table to the other. Anna chose slices of skinke, egg, and susild, adding bread in where her plate was still bare. Everyone was served coffee, none refusing the hot drink, though Elsa and Egon chose to not to sweeten it at all with sugar or cream. Linnéa, however, made up for her husband in an almost comical fashion. She seemed to have the biggest stomach for breakfast, digging in with gusto that Anna didn’t understand; it was the rapid and indiscriminate pace one would set if they didn’t know when or where their next meal would come from. She also didn’t seem partial to speaking. After a few bites, Elsa began the conversation again.

            “Prince Hans—”

            “—Hans, your Grace. I was stripped of my title and disowned… If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d prefer just Hans,” the man at the far end interrupted. Elsa quirked a surprised eyebrow at him, nodded once, and amended, “I’ve decided to shelter Hans and his caretakers. I’ve sent guards to browse the arriving ships for those who might have come from the Southern Isles. If they find your bounty hunters, Hans, they’ve been instructed to put them back on an out-bound ship with a letter of entreaty from me and direction to give it to your eldest brother. If he responds well, I will grant the three of you asylum in Arendelle.”

            Anna saw the shadow of relief cross Hans’ face. Kristoff squeezed Anna’s hand this time, and she looked up into his warm brown eyes to find that they questioned her reaction. Anna nodded once to let him know that she approved. The bemused smile returned, but it was unstressed.

            “Egon, you and your wife may stay here in the palace, or, if you would like, we can settle you somewhere in the city. It was a worthwhile risk to free Hans, one that Anna and I feel you deserve to be rewarded for.” Linnéa had paused her rapid pace while the Queen had been speaking, her mouth free to smile, to say, “Can you imagine; a house, here?”

            Anna paid attention to the veteran’s reaction, seeing that while excitement touched his eyes, his wizened mind ruled, and the man asked, “Where will Hans be staying?”

            Elsa shifted, not for comfort, but to command more authority as she said, “I believe, with the uncertainty of his amnesty, that it is better if he remain here, in the castle.” Though it was logical, Anna hadn’t been as prepared for that as she might have hoped. The idea that Hans would be there daily was unsettling. Her hand must have gripped unconsciously, because Kristoff recognized her distress immediately, and asked without hesitation, “Is that wise? Should he be let loose to wander, or were you planning on keeping him guarded?” They were questions based on the worst-case scenarios, but Anna felt comforted to know that both her mind and Kristoff’s were in the same cautionary mindset.

            “I’ll stay, then,” Egon said quickly, which surprised Anna in a way, and surprised Hans even more. The ex-prince looked at his unlikely volunteer with an odd astonishment. Linnéa hid her disappointment under cheerful airs, “That would be lovely, your Grace.” The veteran smoothed a hand over his beard, saying, “Could I, Queen Elsa, be under your employ to keep an eye on Hans? I soldiered most my life, and I’ve still got the skill with the sword and the eye for trouble. My wife, I’m sure, would make a good maid here, if you’d allow it. We’d be honored for the chance.”

            Anna, though mostly quiet the whole meal, spoke up, saying with a smile, “You’re hired,” just before taking a bite of skinke and bread. The married couple seemed honest enough, and considering what trouble they faced if Elsa sent them back to the Southern Isles, Anna believed that neither would break trust. Elsa must have agreed, because she said nothing to the contrary. That—discussing the issue of room and boarding—done, the group finished breakfast in an uneventful manner.

 

* * *

 

Flaxen arrived on the same morning as Elsa held her public audience. He was even allowed into the castle to see it, though he paid as little attention to the words exchanged as the guards did to him. Four days relaxing on a boat agreed with him, and he looked no different from Arendelle’s working-class male population standing amongst the people as his targets past him going up their aisle. He took note of what they looked like, how the skinny fellow was tall and had reddish brown hair; how the other man wasn’t nearly as tall, but was built for strength, with grey hair and a grey beard, and the last was a woman who seemed awed by the entirety of the situation. When the Snow Queen ended the audience abruptly, Flaxen was one of the first to be ushered out. He spent the remainder of the day looking for ways into Arendelle’s castle, watching guard movements, and creating a map in his mind of the best route in and out. He had to continue his watch into the night, and rested up the following day, finding room for himself in a well-hidden brothel on the outskirts of the castle-town, having a good amount of money to pay a cheap whore for her bed and services throughout the day.

            Night fell on Arendelle—the same night Hans slept in an actual bed—and when the shadows were the longest and darkest, Flaxen was sneaking his bulk into the castle via a balcony and a grappling hook. Half-heartedly, the bounty-hunter hoped to find his primary target—the tall, skinny man—by simply poking his head around on the top floor, but gave up that notion quickly as he crept around the dark and quiet rooms and halls. He was steady on his feet, and the castle was in good repair. Soon, Flaxen was in the bowels of the castle, settling into a closet for the remainder of the night, planning how to capture the prisoner and escape Arendelle until he fell into a light sleep.

            Morning again, with the hustle and bustle about the castle, the same morning breakfast was served. Flaxen caught a rather large guard unawares and knocked him out, taking his clothes and leaving him in the closet. The bounty hunter fell into step easily, a chameleon of sorts, though he was at least doubly muscular over any other soldier. It took him perhaps an hour to discover that his target was in the dining room with the Queen and Princess, and another hour to see the thin man, bearded veteran, and the ex-whore of a wife leave the dining room. He followed them at a sedate pace, eyes sharp under his hat, brokering no suspicion. Flaxen followed them all the way to where the single man left the couple, apparently going to his own room. Well, he wouldn’t be there for long.

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t much to do, but he’d gotten used to that, rotting in a jail cell, over the past year. Hans pulled his perfectly fine bed apart, then set about to remake it, a task he could do without much of a mind, even if the bending and the tucking hurt his body and his hands. He had just returned the sheet to the mattress when there was a soft click of the handle unlocking, which caught his attention instantly. He didn’t have any time, however, between the first click and the second, wherein a big man wearing an Arendelle uniform had a crossbow strung, loaded, and aimed at the shocked ex-prince. The big man shut the door behind him, crossbow still trained on its target, and commanded Hans to, “Just keep yer mouth shut.”

            Panic forced Hans to comply, wide eyes not leaving the crossbow.

            “Yer the prisoner that dog Egon sprung from jail, aye? The one the Princes want back,” the big man asked, pale eyes narrowing, strong jaw setting, looking entirely menacing. Hans felt his heart slamming against its cage like a trapped bird, eager to escape certain death. His mouth couldn’t work past his tongue, which had seemed to sponge up the strangled scream of horror at having been found by one of _their_ men. Though his mind was a storm of thoughts, he could do little more than stare at the bounty hunter in terror, leading the big man to chuckle at him darkly.

            “What they want _you_ fer? Why, yer look like could be one of ‘ems buggering boys. Is that why they want you back? Got tired of them fancy lady wives an’ wanted a little piece of ass to play with? Well, whatever they want, they’re paying big fer bringing ya back to ‘em. Yer gonna be a good boy, aren’t ya, and come with me without a fight?” he asked, taunting Hans while being utterly condescending.

            The words cracked down into the fear like a bolt of lightning, igniting the urge to flee from this bounty hunter like dried grass in a forgotten field. Despite being weak and hurt beyond all undoing, Hans found the strength to fight again—a fight that he hadn’t lost, even as hands tried to beat it out of him. He would fight to run away, even if the only place he could run to was off the castle from a high ledge. The decision was made in a split second, and only the changing set of his eyes warned the bounty hunter. Without time to react other than pull the trigger, Hans rushed the big man, knocking the crossbow’s aim off, though the bolt lodged in his thigh, both falling into the door. Hans used the leg not pierced with the bolt to knee the man in the face, scrambling to get out into the hallway.

 

* * *

 

Egon and his wife returned to their room, speaking quietly about the new roles they would be assuming in the castle. She was surprisingly excited about being a maid, though when the veteran asked her about it, she came back with the startlingly frank, “Scrubbing pots and pans and sheets and dresses—easy work compared to selling your body.” He didn’t dare laugh until she did, though his was more out of surprise than out of a dismissal. The former trollop smiled, pressed her curves against him and tugged lightly on his beard. “I’m just happy to be by your side. You made an honest woman out of me. I just like the idea of honest work.”

            Their subsequent kissing had just reached the breathless level where both were hooking fingers around each other’s clothes when the very obvious sound of a man yelling for help reached their ears. Egon and his rather fearless wife rushed out of the room, into the hall, down a short flight of steps, both thinking the same thing: that the scream had come from Hans. A couple of soldiers were running from the opposite direction as Egon and Linnéa skidded to a halt.

            A man every bit as tall as Hans had a knife to the invalid’s throat, a wild glint in his eyes as he saw what ran towards him. The sight of the bounty hunter using Hans as a body shield set Egon’s blood to boiling, but he lacked a weapon, and the ex-prince was too firmly held in his grip, already wounded by an arrow to the leg and probably unable to fight back.

            “Back up! All of ya! Or I’ll slice him a pretty red necklace!” boomed out the voice. Hans had the look of a man who wanted to live as he held still, careful of the knife. Linnéa was quick to hurl insults and vulgarities like knives of her own, but was otherwise as impotent as Hans and Egon were. The soldiers were stopped as well, not willing to risk the prisoner’s life for a chance at the crook that held him.

            “You four stay right here, dammit! I’m going, and I’m taking him with me. Don’t make a move!” Edging back, the bounty hunter was forced to back down the hall with no idea where he was going. Egon waited until the pair had disappeared around the corner, and then ran after them, Linnéa and two soldiers hot on his heels. They didn’t catch up until all six were in one of the main halls.

            However, they need not pursue the bounty hunter and ex-prince any further.

            Queen Elsa of Arendelle had already separated prisoner from captor and had the big man pinned to the floor with ice encasing all four limbs, which despite vein-bulging struggles held better than the strongest steel. She stood apart from the sprawled Hans, looking somewhat alarmed. Aside from her ice gown, this was the first display of her magic that Egon had seen. As he helped Hans to his feet, he watched her disappear up the stairs with a slightly unsettled feeling chilling his old bones, knowing if he didn’t keep his word, there was little he could do to avoid being encased in ice and sent on his way. Whatever the soldiers planned to do to remove the bounty hunter, Egon and his wife didn’t stick around to see, taking Hans back to his room wordlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the already completed chapters.


	5. Hanging

Olaf and Sven were never far apart. The closer the date of Anna and Kristoff’s wedding came, the more they seemed to be on their own. Not that Olaf couldn’t—or didn’t—have free range of the castle of Arendelle; he could go to see Anna or Elsa whenever he wanted, and roamed where he pleased. The issue with that, with Anna’s wedding one week away, was that they seemed so busy. Olaf would turn up, his personal snow flurry hanging over his head, and be good-naturedly bustled around. It didn’t hurt his feelings—a royal wedding that included trolls must be a nightmare to plan, logistically. So he would find a place to sit out of the way and enjoy the show.

            Most surprising to him was the arrival of Hans for the wedding. Given the way Anna’s last meeting with him ended, Olaf hadn’t thought he would be on the guest list. No one had explained anything, however, and Olaf had only seen Hans briefly, sitting in a bed with two strangers beside him in chairs—one had introduced himself as Egon later—and wondered how he was going to attend the wedding in a bed, since he never left it. But, alas, Olaf moved on to find something more entertaining.

            That afternoon, “more entertaining” was watching Kristoff having his wedding suit tailored. He was poked and measured and re-measured, and had to stand and model as the tailor made alterations.

            “So that’s what you’re wearing to your wedding?” Olaf finally asked, having a captive audience.

            “Um… yeah,” Kristoff answered, looking over his shoulder at the animate snowman. “It’s supposed to be ‘traditional,’ for the groom.”

            “I think you looked better when the trolls dressed you,” Olaf said, “Less like a white peacock.” 

* * *

 Hans convalesced in bed, Linnéa being the most common fixture in his small room. A doctor had dressed his wound and showed the gentle woman how to do it as well, giving them a salve that was supposed to help keep it clean and close the wound. He slept most of the first day, part of the second, then sat in his bed uncomfortably through the third. The third day was also when Egon caught the ex-prince up on what had happened to the bounty hunter.

            The same day that the altercation happened, four guards from the Southern Isles were escorted from the docks to the castle. They had, they said, been sent by the Crown Prince to, if the bounty hunters found their target—a nameless prisoner who had been freed by a veteran named Egon—pay the men off and send word to Prince Dorian, permitting the prisoner to stay where he was. Queen Elsa received the communiqué they from the Elder Prince and, as Egon reported, was somewhat irked. She said that a letter was on its way back to Prince Dorian via the first two bounty hunters intercepted. “She’s letting two of the guards stay in Arendelle, but only so long as they stay in an Inn and be watched by her own people. The other two are taking Lumpy back to the Southern Isles. Your brother will probably get her letter before the guards make it back home.” Egon and his wife had taken to calling the bounty hunter “Lumpy” for no apparent reason—when asked, Egon said the man was just… lumpy. Hans was just happy that the big man was leaving, probably not to be let back into Arendelle, ever.

            After that update, Hans asked if anything else was happening in the castle. Egon was reluctant in saying, “Princess Anna’s wedding is in a week.” The veteran’s brown eyes hovered on Hans, trying to gage his reaction. Hans wondered vaguely if it betrayed anything that he didn’t know he felt—any jealousy, any remorse, or any aggravation—because he was feeling particularly… numb. “Oh,” was his response.

            “She and you were engaged once, aye?” Egon asked. Hans looked at his…—well, Egon was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend—before saying, “We were, though I was simply trying to marry into the Throne. Our engagement was a sham. I took advantage of how lonely Princess Anna was, and when I thought she was going to die, I left her to her fate. Then I tried to kill Queen Elsa. It would have all worked out for me if Anna had died—I would have had the kingdom all to myself—but she did not, and I did not kill Elsa. They sent me back to the Southern Isles, and… well, you know the rest.”

            Steadily, Hans met Egon’s saddened gaze, until the veteran looked away. “I do know the rest. And I knew all that, too, son.”

            “You hadn’t heard it from me, though,” Hans countered, having the veteran look at him again. Egon nodded, quiet for a moment before saying, “No. I hadn’t… Do you regret it?”

            Again, Hans was numb. His answer was the finale of the conversation, Egon leaving shortly after, subdued and seemingly unhappy;

            “Does it matter now?” 

* * *

After his fitting, Kristoff went down to the stables to see Sven, finding Anna there as well, though she didn’t notice him right away, too busy tickling Sven’s chin. Kristoff enjoyed the uninterrupted view, and when her back was turned to him, snuck in to surprise her and steal a kiss. Barely a squeak escaped her before their lips met, and even surprised, Anna kissed back with a breathtaking passion. In fact, both were somewhat panting when they finally pulled apart. It was an unspoken thought between the two: _Not yet. One more week._

            The closer their wedding came, the more the pair seemed to have to tell themselves “not yet.”

            “How’s the dress fitting going?” Kristoff asked after a few exchanges of small talk, and some exchanges with Sven, including a carrot, that helped get their minds off kissing. Anna made a face, “You’d think that all the time I’ve spent having dresses fitted would’ve prepared me for this one, but it’s so different than anything I’ve ever worn before. Not to say it isn’t pretty. It is. But I’m starting to feel glad that I only have to wear it once… What about you? How’s the fitting going?”

            “Well, I guess. I’ve never had to deal that much with being poked and prodded. Olaf said I looked like a white peacock,” Kristoff laughed at the end of his sentence, though after said comment, Olaf had had to go and find something else to do. “He said I had looked better when the trolls had dressed me.”

            Anna’s turn to laugh; Kristoff had a harder time keeping his lips to himself when she laughed. She smiled and said, “That was so much easier than having it at the castle. No dignitaries to invite, troll or otherwise, and they did all of the work.”

            “We could go right now and probably be married before the sun sets,” Kristoff said, half-joking. Anna laughed again, but shook her head, copper hair catching the light of the lantern and the natural window lights. “Probably, but… Elsa wouldn’t be there. Besides, the guests are already on their way; it’d be rude to elope before they got here.”

            Kristoff had to agree that Anna was right, reminding himself that it was _just one more week_. He let Sven out of the stall and suggested the three of them go for a walk, out into the town or through the gardens. Between Anna and Sven, the gardens were chosen, and so off the trio went, Sven firmly keeping a bodily barrier between the two, perhaps playfully prudish. Kristoff wondered if it wasn’t his four-legged friend’s turn to find a member of the opposite sex. Maybe sometime after the wedding, Sven and he would go into the mountains again to see if any herds of reindeer roamed the great expanses. Anna and Kristoff had chatted easily about menial things throughout the walk, both having chances to make the other laugh, fingers sliding together in Sven’s fur as though by accident.

            Just one more week…

* * *

The following day—six days to the wedding—the first of the wedding guests arrived, a rather wealthy lordling and his widowed mother, who were welcome to either stay on their ship or take their pick of the suites of rooms in the Queen’s castle. Naturally, the pair found the castle a much more hospitable place. Their early arrival—considering that the lordship was only a day’s journey by boat—was due to a mistaken date on the invitation. The former lord had died in the same shipwreck that had killed Anna and Elsa’s parents, his life swallowed up in the waves with King Agdar and Queen Idun, so, naturally, the widow and son were invited to Anna’s wedding.

            Elsa entertained them briefly until Anna and Kristoff could receive them, and having nothing on her itinerary for the next few hours, found herself seeking less-traversed paths in the castle, the direction being towards the servants quarters, being towards the place where Hans was convalescing. At first she didn’t realize that she was doing it on purpose, just going there out of some unintelligible feeling; Elsa quickly recognized, however, that she really _was_ going to see Hans, but couldn’t quite pick out what she was going to say.

            The day was bleak with a monotonous rain, subduing most everyone in the castle, including the Queen. That morning she’d dressed in a toned-down light-blue ice gown, feet clad in flat ice slippers rather than her normal heels, her hair pleated in the normal way. Summer needed the rain, she knew—rain grew the crops, crops fed the people, she led the people—but it was not nearly as comforting to her as snow. The gloomy, muddy mess that rain created seemed to only deepen the subdued feeling in the castle. Perhaps having rain so close to Anna and Kristoff’s wedding would ward off showers or storms on the wedding day.

            Halting her impromptu walk, Elsa stood at the corner between the main hallway and the one that led to Hans’ room, eyeing the corridor as though it might contain some harmful entity. It could, couldn’t it? She could continue down the hall and be back in her suite, stand in the doorway to her balcony and watch the rain fall for a while before her next scheduled item. It would be a soggy view, and the humidity would likely cling to her as tightly as a bodice, but it would less mentally taxing than what she entertained doing. Plucking up her resolve like it was a dropped glove, Elsa went down the hallway and knocked on Hans’ door, three beats, all firm.

            Linnéa answered the door, eyes widening at the sight of the Queen in the doorway. At such a close distance, Elsa discerned that the woman had brown eyes, lighter than Kristoff’s by several shades, and that while few lines marred the adult face, there were pronounced feet at the corners of her eyes, and the beginning of a line near her brow. Elsa guessed that she was in her early to mid-thirties, though Linnéa’s husband was a man of at least forty, if not mid-forties. It crossed Elsa’s mind to ask this woman about her life, but right then was not the time.

            “Hullo,” Elsa said, not yet granted access into the room. Linnéa had frozen in the doorway, unmoving. The woman answered with a very similar tone, saying, “Hullo,” as if she were shocked.

            “I was hoping to speak to Hans, Mrs.… Linnéa, and I was hoping I could do so alone. Would you be so kind as to allow us some privacy?”

            Linnéa moved quite quickly as she sidestepped the doorway, saying, “Pardon me, Your Grace. Of course you may.”

            When Elsa had entered past her, Linnéa made her exit, shutting the door behind her. Elsa’s eyes went to Hans, who sat propped up against pillows, legs under the covers, a plain shirt covering his upper half. The auburn hair that had been tied back from his face each time she’d seen him was now lose and fell in thick waves behind and around his shoulders. He was looking back at her with a passive askance, expectant, perhaps. Elsa went to the set by his bed, where Linnéa had left some sort of mending or embroidering, which the Queen moved, and composed herself in the chair. Though she meant to speak first, no words came to mind, and she stared in silence at the patterns in her skirt.

            “Why did you stop that man, Queen Elsa?” Hans asked in a quiet voice, prompting the monarch to look up and into green eyes. She couldn’t answer right away, and when the stare-down reached an intolerable length, Hans was the first to look away. Finally, she found words that were not charged with her own emotions. “I said I would shelter you until your elder brother arrives. That man meant to either do you harm or make off with you, back to your other brothers. It would reflect poorly on me if I did not keep my word.”

            Hans was again meeting the Queen’s gaze, steadily, and held for a moment after she stopped her explanation, face almost unreadable, before simply nodding. They went another long moment without speaking. Elsa ventured a question of her own: “How’s your leg?” Though both were tucked under the blankets, she could see that one was raised up, perhaps on a pillow. He answered without looking at it, without looking away from her, “It will be fine. My threshold for pain has gotten higher in the last year.” Green eyes still on her, expecting something: a reaction from her.

            Elsa didn’t look away for a moment, and her face stayed quite expressionless for that time. Her mind was trying to conjure up some image of the torment faced by this man, his words about being beaten, whipped, drowned, having his fingernails and toenails removed, being hung, repeating in her head. She looked down all of a sudden, unwilling to show that she pitied him. That she was somewhat guilty at having been the one to send Hans back home. How could she have known that his brothers were such vicious beings? Well, she’d had one example, but to think that a family existed where thoughts twisted to violence and misplaced vengeance—even to one of their own—was incomprehensible.

            “Egon told, didn’t he?” Hans asked Elsa. She pretended to be confused when she looked up, but when she caught sight of his serious expression, she let that drop. Elsa answered with a nod.

            Tension visibly drained from the ex-prince, though Elsa wondered if it wasn’t defeat that hunched his wide shoulders. “He told just after he knocked you out. He also told me what else happened to you, and while I won’t ask you about it, I wanted you to know… that I know.”

            “And you? Did you tell anyone else? Anna? Kristoff?”

            “Anna. I had to, though I didn’t reveal everything.”

            Elsa had looked at the lamp when she lost the nerve to look at Hans. The steady illumination was easy on her eyes, and the flame in the globe flickered slowly. The quiet between them signaled the end, Elsa thought, to their talk, and she made the move to get up off the chair and leave. His voice reached out to grab her as surely as a hand would have.

            “You could have let him take me,” he said, “No one would have blamed you.”

            The words hit her with the immediate effect of making her quietly, coldly angry. Her eyes narrowed as she turned, and though she was completely in control, the temperature in the room dropped so that both hers and Hans’ breath hung in the air. “If I wanted you dead, it would be well within my power to do so. If I wanted you tortured, I’m sure I could come up with something on my own. You said it yourself that the punishment was mine alone to deal out. I’ve already decided not to punish you, but you can call it a debt to me that keeps you safe under my domain.”

            With that, Elsa left Hans, quick stride making for a fast track back to her rooms. In a fit of rather explosive anger, she slammed the door shut behind her, icy touch making a sheet of ice blossom up and down the woodwork like climbing vines. It only served to make her more irritated. She wanted to be on the North Mountain again, able to let her powers fly and spare Arendelle. As it was, she could only walk through her sitting room into her bedroom, grab one of the pillows and scream into it until she was almost blue in the face. The exercise didn’t release all of her tension, but it left her rather breathless as she flopped back on the bed, un-lady-like.

            “‘You could have let him take me,’ he says,” Elsa mocked, trying to release the last of her aggravation, “‘No one would have blamed you.’ So, why not? Why not let some ruffian thief steal you back to your brothers? They surely wouldn’t have stuck you in a nice room with a bed, given you clothes, fed you…! I would have blamed me!” It surprised her to hear it come out of her mouth, so much so that while her brain continued on, her mouth did not.

            It would have weighed on her mind that she had let someone go back to that kind of maltreatment. Even if that someone was an enemy once, she… she didn’t wish that on him. She hadn’t wished it when she had sent Hans back to his brothers. There had been a corner of her mind where the guilt had lived that believed she had had a hand in his “death.” And to think, no one would have blamed her if she sent him back? Were there so few caring individuals in her kingdom? It hadn’t seemed like it when she made an ice-rink out of the courtyard, but, then again, wasn’t it the mob’s prerogative to be influenced into revolting madness by pretty words? If she asked each person, “Would you send him back so that his brothers could torture him daily until he died; until he was used and spent and broken? Would you do the same to me if I ever made a terrible mistake again?” she wondered that she would get “no” across the board, but if she were to ask these questions of a crowd, wouldn’t all those no’s become yeses?

            Perhaps Prince Dorian would take Hans off her hands, and she would be able to go on thinking that she had no further role in any mistreatment. That would be the optimal situation; right up until someone delivered another note telling of his death…perhaps with a head for good measure. Worst-case scenario, she told herself, but, then again, hadn’t the worst-case happened to Hans already. Death had not stopped his living hell.

            How complicated, all of it.

            Throwing herself into a wedding preparation seemed the safer and easier choice. Elsa left her bedroom, shutting the door as resolutely as she shut off the thoughts pertaining to her prisoner and his future. She thawed her other door easily, picturing Anna, as she always did, just after love had thawed her out. The words were there in her heart, an anchor for when her emotions overwhelmed her: “You sacrificed yourself, for me?” to which her brave little sister replied, “I love you.” 

* * *

Five days before the wedding, a rather ugly incident occurred, involving Linnéa and another maid as they were working on the laundry. The head-butler was the first to brave the flying fists and raging tempers, pulling the women apart as a schoolmaster might, disapproving robustly and making a good barricade of himself. Since he could get neither a coherent answer nor a non-obscene one from either woman, he sent them off to their corners of the castle and said that should either be caught fighting again, they could both find some other place to work.

            Fuming, Linnéa sought refuge in the quiet room where Hans made a few passes at walking on his injured leg. When she barged in, he seemed rather shocked. For the most part, Hans had never seen Linnéa angry, and it did not escape him that she was capable of being entirely frightening. Though, after a good couple of seconds of having had the door closed, the woman burst into tears. Totally bewildered, Hans could only stand and watch as the woman cried herself out. When she was little more than sniffles and shaky attempts at deep breaths, Linnéa took a few steps to sit on Hans’s bed. Hans took the chair after a minute of indecision.

            “What is it?” he asked, confusion still working his brain. In a weak voice, Linnéa tried, “M’not welcome here.” Her head snapped up, brown eyes almost green with how red they’d become, and she tried to clarify, adding, “Not that that’s what got me upset.”

            “What did cause you to be so upset?”

            Linnéa let out a breath, the shake having gone out of her, “I used to make money lying down—whoring, you know. I was a girl when my ma died of consumption, and the only lady what would take me in and feed me was a Madam for a brothel. I did what I had to. I survived. I’m not ashamed of that.” She took a minute to decide where she was going with the story, it seemed. Hans’ thoughts turned to the few whores he’d lain with before his brothers made him a half-man, and he felt a disturbing connection to them. If they did what they did to survive, he knew how it felt. Linnéa continued, “I was washing clothes, minding my own, and I feel something stuck to my back…” Twisting where she sat, the ex-whore showed Hans a red W dead center on her back, tacked with tar, then returned to how she had been. “It wasn’t what got my goat, so to speak. I can handle the snickers and the disapproval. Wearing what I was isn’t something I won’t do proudly. The bitch—the maid, I mean, didn’t get her rise like she was hoping for, so she started talking down to me—like that hasn’t been tried. I didn’t hit her until she called Egon a sorry-boy-buggering-get and you a sniveling, conniving coward.”

            Hans could feel his face responding to the words, the pull of his eyebrows together and up, the widening of his eyes, and the press of his lips together. She smiled a little, saying, “I know what you did, but I like you all the same. Not everyone gets a second chance. Anyhow, I popped her in the mouth for saying those things about you and Egon because neither of you deserves that. I still wasn’t very upset because I’ve fought plenty of angry women, and a few men, too, and came out alright. Sure, I was calling her every name I could think of, but I was only angry, not upset. The butler, now he’s the one who got me; said that if we got in another fight, we’d be finding another place to work. What a trap. I’ll fight anyone who calls my husband names.”

            Linnéa paused to reach out and take one of Hans’ hands, stubs of fingernails the only evidence that he had them at all. She pet the top with such affection that Hans almost pulled it back from her out of embarrassment. “I’d fight them for saying things about you, too. I know I’m not quite old enough, but I suppose you’ve become the son me and Egon never could have.”

            Hans did pull his hand back with those words, feeling the urge to run from Linnéa, but knowing he’d only collapse in the room and have to have her help him up. “But… you’ve known me barely two weeks. I am a man, not a boy, and you might be… ten years older than I am?”

            This wasn’t the reaction she was hoping for, evidently, though one she might have expected, “You’re right, Hans. I only meant that you’re dear to both me and my husband. Like family.”

            “Get out,” Hans said, calm on the outside, “Get out, now, please.”

            Linnéa stared at the ex-prince in a stricken way, but finally did move toward the door, looking back to him just before slipping out. When she was gone, Hans felt as chilled as he had when Elsa left, the day before. His eyes were on the wall opposite, back rigid in the chair.

            _“Like family.”_ What did he want with family? He never asked for Egon’s help, nor for Linnéa’s, but help from them flowed forth in leaps and bounds. They’d broke him out of prison, ended the cycle of cruelty at his brothers’ hands, and brought him to the one place that he might actually get fair treatment. He didn’t want their charity. He didn’t want Egon’s protection. He didn’t want Linnéa’s pity. He didn’t want to be in debt to them, too.

            Denied death, denied freedom, Hans wondered if anyone would deny him strong mead. He’d never been a particularly heavy drinker, but so few releases were available to him now. Impotently, he sat on the chair and wallowed in misery and self-pity.

* * *

            Two days left before the wedding, and a ship sailed into the Arendelle’s harbor, its flag the distinctly recognizable colors of the Southern Isles. It caused quite a stir docking so boldly at the port. Gossip was that one of the princes had come to seek Elsa’s hand and attend the wedding. They didn’t realize that Prince Dorian was already married, nor did they know that he was there only because Bent and Dodgy had returned with letters from Elsa about holding Hans until he came himself, the other brothers to be left at home.

            The Heir-apparent and a set of similarly loyal guards rode off the planks on horseback. Dorian’s steed was the very same that Hans had lost when he was returned to the Southern Isles in disgrace. Though the horse moved when driven forward, turned when prompted by the bit, the elder prince could tell that it disliked him. It had a restive step when given the chance, and Heaven forbid it ever got its head. They met two of the guards he had sent after Flaxen and the others near the market.

            When asked, they said they had been instructed to stay while the other two escorted a bounty hunter back to the Southern Isles, as directed by Queen Elsa of Arendelle, per the similar direction from himself. Dorian let it hit him again that his youngest brother was alive, there, in that castle.

            An octet, seven guards and himself, Dorian and his men, rode to the outer gates of the castle of Arendelle. They were asked to state their business, Dorian answering that he had come for an audience with the Queen. As expected, someone ran off inside, leaving the octet under the watchful eye of perhaps a dozen of Arendelle’s finest. It took perhaps ten minutes for the call to be made to open the gates to Prince Dorian of the Southern Isles.

* * *

Anna and Kristoff stationed themselves in the stables, emissaries to meet the eldest prince. They would allow the men to stable their steeds, straighten themselves up, and then the pair would lead the octet to where Elsa waited in the same hall that she had received Prince Dorian’s brother.

            The first thing Anna put to words in her mind about the Heir was that he looked just like Hans. Older, yes, with flecks of gray standing out in his otherwise auburn temples and mustache, the vigor of youth not as strong as in his younger brother, but looking very similar indeed. He rode the same horse Hans had almost knocked her into the port-waters with, and when he brought it to a stop, the animal shied and danced a little, tossing its head as Dorian made haste to dismount. When the prince was on the ground, he led the horse into a stall and closed the door, shaking his head at the antics of the animal.

            “Prince Dorian,” Anna said, calling his attention to her, “I am Princess Anna, and this is my fiancé, Kristoff Bjorgman. The Queen will see you in the audience hall.” The prince left the stall and stood a few feet from her, then bowed, and when he looked up, she saw that his eyes were more brown than his brother’s, but still somewhat green. “Thank you, Princess Anna and Kristoff Bjorgman.”

            Disquieted by how gentlemanly the eldest brother was, Anna and Kristoff led him out of the stables and up into the castle with very few words. When they arrived in the audience hall, the couple went past the guards meant to keep the Prince and his men back from the dais where Elsa was sitting. Anna saw the hint of a smile on Elsa’s face as the couple passed her to stand on the right side of the throne. She returned it and faced the elder prince again. He looked at the audience hall somewhat awed, which almost made Anna laugh. The audience hall was already mostly decorated for Anna and Kristoff’s wedding, its gables dressed up with flowering vines and streamers of the kingdom’s colors. It made the hall seem monstrously big and lively, soft drafts from high up making the streamers and vines dance.

            “Good afternoon, Prince Dorian,” Elsa said, capturing the heir’s attention, until it seemed Dorian would never look away from the Queen. He had the same awed expression looking from the ceiling to Anna’s sister. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Queen Elsa,” he finally responded, bowing again.

            “I assume that you received my letter,” Elsa stated. She’d fashioned quite the dress for this meeting, the neckline of the dress encrusted with jewel-like ice crystals, with a high collar that was only possible because she had pulled her hair all up off her neck. The dress swept down, gossamer in shades of blue, showing only her toes at the bottom, a train pooling to one side of her feet. It was stately and impressive.

            “I did, indeed, Your Majesty, four days ago, almost to the hour. You said my youngest brother Hans is alive, and that you were providing shelter for him?” It sounded as though, to Anna, that Prince Dorian was truly excited by the prospect. He had had nothing to do with Hans’ torture, then? He was one of the many who had been duped by the fake hanging into believing that his brother was dead? Wouldn’t it be a shock, then, to see just how terrible Hans appeared now?

            “Egon,” Elsa called, “You can come out now.”

            The door opened on the left side of the dais, and the gray veteran walked out rather slowly, pausing a few paces away, hands crossing behind his back. Hans moved slowly, Egon’s wife right behind him as he walked on a cane forward, into view. Anna didn’t miss the look of sheer horror as it built on Dorian’s face. She tried to imagine how Hans must look to his brother: thin, weak, strange without his long sideburns. In all honesty, Hans looked better now than he had when he had first arrived. The color had returned to his face, and the shallow, desperate look to his eyes had been replaced with simple tiredness. He’d gained weight, but not so much that he really looked healthy. He just didn’t look as emaciated. But this was the worst that Dorian had seen, and it terrified him, Anna thought.

            “Wh—what have they done to you?!” the elder brother cried out. Anna and Elsa both knew that he wasn’t talking about them; the “they” was Hans and Dorian’s brothers. As horrified and distressed as the older brother seemed, the younger brother gave little indication that he was moved by the display, standing in place with Egon on one side and Linnéa on the other, all three the picture of understated misery. “Hans?” Dorian asked, his frown deepening.

            “Your Grace,” Hans began, turning to Elsa, “Could my brother and myself be excused to speak in private?” It was a polite request, but Anna could hear that Hans’ voice was calculatedly bridled, as though he really meant to shout at any moment. She looked to Elsa, who had heard the same thing.

            “You may. There is a room on the other side of the door, to the right, I believe, that should work well. We will leave you to it.” Elsa stood, and the audience was over. Dorian’s guards would be left waiting elsewhere, and the rest of the group would likely adjourn to one of the dining rooms. Anna, though curious about what the exchange would be like, left quickly with Kristoff, Elsa, Egon, and Linnéa. 

* * *

Dorian went through the door first, his escort sent to a wing of halls close to the room the pair of brothers went through, and Hans followed him. He went into the room on the right, thoughts half on Queen Elsa and half on his brother. For starters, the Queen was every bit as beautiful as Hans had described, a year earlier. She had been as impressive as her colloquial title: “the Snow Queen,” but certainly a fairer maiden he had never beheld in his life. Were he not a happily married man, and were he a few years younger, he would have fallen to one knee and begged her to be his wife. Thank his lucky stars that he was not prone to such humiliating gestures. Secondly, and the larger part of his mind was preoccupied with it, Hans was a shadow of a man he had known. It seemed Death had him in His skeletal hand, and had sucked the life out of him. In his mind, Dorian couldn’t equate such a change with the punishments handed out by his younger brothers.

            Dorian ignored most things about the room—what its purpose was, what sort of furniture it held, what the light looked like coming through the drapes—and focused again upon his brother. Such a slight figure in comparison to a year ago, and so gaunt without the facial hair Dorian was used to, and so tired were his brother’s eyes, why, he walked on a cane. Why?

            On impulse, the Heir closed the space between himself and his brother and wrapped him in a warm hug. Hans stiffened immediately, but did not lift a finger or an arm to either push him away or hug Dorian back. Surprised, he drew back, face overflowing with the stung emotion, then with confusion.

            “Do not touch me,” Hans said, an answer for the surprise and confusion, “Do not—ever. Move away from me, now. Go stand by the windows.” If Hans had been speaking in a haughty way, Dorian would never have complied, but the only variations in his brother’s voice sizzled with anger. Unsettled, Dorian moved away on his own, standing by the windows. Hans took a seat in the chair closest to the door, moving slowly on an injured leg.

            “What have they done to you, Hans?” Dorian asked again, less horrified and more mortified. He would have liked to been locked in a room with the old, brattish Hans than this version. The younger of the two looked away from his brother for a moment, no emotion crossing his face. When he looked up again, and when he spoke, he looked and sounded on the verge of shouting, “Why didn’t you stop them hanging me?”

            “Are you blaming me for this?” Dorian asked, shocked. Hans jerked his head once in a nod, adding, “Yes! You had it in your power to revoke their judgment. You could have had Father do it—”

            “Do you think I knew they planned to fake your death? I griev—”

            “I don’t care what you thought might happen to me! They were going to _KILL_ me, Dorian! You let them _KILL_ me, and did _nothing_ about it! And do not act as if you didn’t have the power to stop them. We both know that to be horseshit.”

            Dorian grimaced, anger and indignation pulling up from his toes. He pressed his lips together tightly, almost too angry for words, almost. “What makes you think at that point I wanted to stop your execution?”

            Such a response surprised Hans, apparently, because he finally looked somewhat hurt. It quickly simmered down into a rage in his eyes. Dorian continued, “I went to talk to you that day to decide if you were worth sparing. All I heard were the words of a man with no soul. You seemed wicked, devious, and incapable of emotions that could redeem you. I may not have wanted you dead, Hans, but I didn’t oppose it because you were lost to me.”

            Though Hans’ mouth worked, for a minute, there was quiet between them. Anger brought something of the old Hans to life again. To know he was angry was a relief to Dorian, who thought that perhaps Hans was homicidal. Finally, aforementioned murderous brother opened his mouth and spoke, “Do you know what it’s like to be hung by a noose?”

            Hans touched his neck for a moment, not looking at Dorian, who had no answer for him, “Despite their mechanizations to keep my neck from being broken, our brothers left it perfectly possible to feel strangled. I was marched up on top of the gallows—a walk that no man should survive—and then made to stand gagged as the crowd looked up at me being fitted with the noose. The executioner had been paid off and taught how to properly align the noose and the harness I was fitted with, and did so. The floor was dropped out, and what I felt wasn’t my neck breaking, but the burn of the rope on my skin, and the helplessness of being choked slowly. I blacked out after about ten minutes, all of which I had been barely able to take a breath. When I came to, I had been put in a prison cell. That’s where they exacted the rest of their punishments. I would have preferred to die on the gallows, looking back on it now.”

            The silence again reigned unchecked in the room. Dorian didn’t know what to do to respond. His mind wheeled around the words that still hung in the air. Hans had wanted to die? Hans had lived through “punishments” that their brothers had devised? The feeling came over him that he wanted to walk over to where Hans sat and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He wouldn’t dare now, though.

            “I’m…” Dorian began, “If I knew that they would have faked your death to torture you, I would have stopped it all, Hans. I’m sorry, really and truly. Even though it’s very little and very late, I’m sorry I let them hang you. I’m sorry I didn’t see what they were capable of. I can’t ask for your forgiveness—I don’t think I deserve it…”

            The elder prince did move across the room, but it was to drop to eyelevel with his brother in the chair, a couple of feet away from him. “It’ll get out that you’re still alive. I can revoke my own punishment, and ban any further actions by the princes, but I doubt that you’ll ever be able to return to the Southern Isles without one of our brothers attacking you again. Stay here in Arendelle as long as you can. I will send a ship with the possessions, or their equivalent, that we took from you. You’ll have your title back, if you want it. Let me do this for you, Hans,” Dorian said, “Reparations.”

            “Do what you please,” Hans said, stabbing the cane onto the floor and standing in a less-than fluid motion. He went to the door as Dorian stood straight, then looked back at his brother, “Princess Anna’s wedding is two days away. You should stay for the sakes of my hosts. Perhaps pay for my room and board with that ship full of possessions.”

            Dorian watched as Hans’ form escaped the room in a shuffling amble. When he was gone, the Heir put his hand to his face and tried not to be overcome with sadness. 

* * *

It was the evening before the wedding, and the castle was conspicuously quiet. Kristoff was down in the stables, having a last minute spell of giddy nervousness. He’d never had so many things be so right for him, and the fact that he was getting married the next day, to Anna… it was stupid to be nervous, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t name what he was nervous about, either. He knew Anna loved him. He knew that he loved her and wanted the marriage, but… but. Nothing. Kristoff had the jitters, was all. Sven watched this in his usual manner, and when Kristoff provided him a voice, Sven made the appropriate facial gestures. All in all, it was helping exponentially.

            Until someone threw a bag over his head and dragged him off. 

* * *

In another part of the castle, Anna was having her own pre-marital jitters. The wedding she wasn’t so much worried about. It was the wedding night that had her pacing the floor, holding her stomach, and making faces. Olaf was her only audience, and the snowman sat on the floor like a child, large eyes blinking as he followed her progress.

            Anna guessed that he didn’t understand. A wedding night to a snowman was probably like any other night. Olaf hadn’t been born of a snowwoman—Elsa had created him. Some of her anxiety came from her naivety, because the explanations of Part A fitting into Part B hadn’t been illustrated. In fact, one of her governesses, when she was young and… flowering… had scared her about how it would hurt, and it wasn’t really for her, but for him, and… Olaf continued to watch her pace and make faces as she let her worries and her happiness duel in her head. Marrying Kristoff would be a-dream-come-true, but what would happen when they shared a bed that first night?

            Anna was so preoccupied that she was caught totally unawares by the bag also being dropped on her head.

* * *

When the stuffy, dark sack was pulled from Kristoff’s head, he was somewhere dark. There was no light to see by at first, which made the quick movements of someone backing away from him feel ominous and ghostly. There was a sound like someone catching their foot and stubbing their toes, then the sound of them swearing quietly, and more whispers as whoever else was in the darkness shushed the noisy party.

            “What is this?!” Kristoff yelled, “What’s going on?!!”

            A light on a torch suddenly appeared, far down the hall, and as it bobbed steadily closer, Kristoff felt the already-flayed nerves tighten in tune to horror. The thing carrying the torch looked like a figure made entirely of fur. It came closer, ragged breathing echoing in its maw and in the room. Kristoff decided _this was it._ He was going to die. 

* * *

Anna’s bag was not removed as she was secured to a chair. She had been gagged over the bag, as her propensity for fighting and screaming had nearly sounded the alarm in the castle. The bag was too dark to see more than hasty silhouettes dancing back and forth in her vision, lighted by a vaguely green lantern light. Beneath the bag, she started a fast verbal assault of questions.

            “Who are you? What do you want from me? Do you know who I am? Do you know who my sister is? You picked the wrong Princess to mess with, buddy! You should send me back to Arendelle right now. Otherwise, she’s gonna bring an eternal winter—” The bag was quickly snagged from Anna’s head, and her words teetered out of her mouth, “down… on…” 

* * *

Kristoff was blinded as the one torch suddenly sprang into a dozen more, with the lights of the room he was in being lit up brilliantly and simultaneously. Roaring laughter disoriented him more, to the point that when he opened his eyes, he still didn’t know what was going on.

            “Surprise!” yelled a chorus of male voices. His genius reply was, “What?”

            “It’s your Stag Party!” yelled a rather rowdy British wedding guest. The first face he recognized was the face of Egon, who seemed to have been the man in the fur. “Come on, Bjorgman! It’s your last night of freedom, aye?! We’ve got to make sure you know what you’re missing!” 

* * *

“Down… on…” Anna blinked, and blinked, and almost couldn’t believe her eyes. Women, most of whom she didn’t know, and a few she did, were costumed most ridiculously, all looking at her with big smiles.           “Bring an eternal winter down, huh? Elsa asked, her costume mostly ridiculous because it was a passable imitation of a red monkey. “Would you settle for liquor and a few games, Anna?”

            “What is this?” Anna asked, blown-away but already having a good time. She was answered not by Elsa, but by Linnéa, who had already gotten into the liquor: “This is a Hen’s Night, Highness! Your sister and your wedding guests thought to celebrate your last night as a maiden and give you a proper send off!” 

* * *

The sunrise of the morning of the wedding found both bride and bridegroom deliciously and regretfully hung-over. In one room, Kristoff rolled out of bed, literally, and felt perfectly green, remembering bits and pieces of the night before as if they were pages of a picture-book flipped too fast. In another, Anna held the chamber-pot against her stomach, feeling dry from head to toe, but particularly like the room rotated around the porcelain epicenter. It took the servants several tries to pry both from where they felt the safest. In both cases, they told themselves that the lessened inhibitions weren’t worth the trouble; they’d never dabble in alcohol again.

            The servants dressed the couple in their separate rooms, knowing that the wedding march would begin at noon, and plied the pair with all manner of cures, time-proven-remedies, and a few superstitious chants over water. In the end, it was Pabbie and Bulda who came to the rescue. What else could magically fix the dehydration of alcohol but trolls?

            As noon approached, the wedding guests gathered in the chapel and in the audience hall. Not a one of the guests could suppress their awe for long. As hot as the summer day was already outside, it was pleasantly cool in the castle; Queen Elsa had worked a little ice magic in the night, adding wondrous ice sculptures to the gables where the vines and streamers had been hung. Perfect snowflakes and abstract designs gave the impression that the summer and the winter met not in spring and autumn, but as old friends, able to co-exist in a tangled, loving manner.

            The guests were all seated, and at the precise moment that the music started up, the doors were opened by Olaf and Sven. The snowman and reindeer were greeted with laughter and a round of applause as they—for lack of a better word—frolicked down the aisle, sprinkling flower petals in whatever fashion they could. The music played them up to the front where both took to standing off to one side and the other. Next, the first of the groomsmen and bridesmaids, Egon and Linnéa, walked together to the end of the chapel, standing on the floor like bookends. The next pair was also a married couple, who had been to Elsa’s coronation and had just missed the eternal winter episode last year. The woman, about Elsa’s age, was their cousin on their father’s side, King Agdar’s sister’s daughter, and had a story all on her own. The man, whom Kristoff had met only the night before, had been very much a part of his wife’s story, and it was to their wedding that the Arendelle royals had shipwrecked four years ago. Both the man and the woman were fast friends of the present couple, and took their places on the first step of the altar, bookends as well. Lastly came the Queen, escorted by Grand Pabbie himself, dressed in a fine gown that matched the other two bridesmaids, which was of the cloth variety. It was a tasteful sacrifice so as not to outshine Anna’s, and though Elsa didn’t look horrible, the dress did its best to make her plainer. Pabbie and Elsa stood on the same step as the second married couple, not really bookends in any sense.

            Kristoff was the second to last to appear. He did not look as much like a white peacock as Olaf had suggested, but was far more regal than he had ever appeared. His blonde hair was combed neatly; face shaved clean, brown eyes alight with excitement. As the music hit a particular note and Kristoff was positioned on his mark, the whole crowd held their breath and turned to look at the doors.

            Anna floated into view, happiness unable to be held by gravity. She was a vision in the purest white, the gown made in a halter-style, the collar of which clasped around Anna’s throat, becoming a fine webbing of lace on her arms. Though it chilled her somewhat, the dress was encrusted with tiny ice crystals, which shimmered with every step she took towards Kristoff. Her skirt was folds and folds of lace, and here and there, a green light peeked out, gems from the trolls. She could have been wearing the trolls’ wedding gown as much as it mattered to her, though. What mattered was the man standing at the end of the chapel, beaming at her. How silly it was to walk and not run.

            She reached the end, and what began with “Dearly Beloved,” blurred into happy, happy moments. Somewhere in the middle, she started crying happy tears. Kristoff’s eyes watered nearly constantly. The rest of the crowd seemed moved, too, and here and there came a sniffle. Naturally, Sven and Olaf were the loudest about their proud weeping. It took nothing away from the ceremony, and when that was done, the crowd carried the newlyweds into the audience hall to break ceramic plates, a tradition to banish evil or jealous spirits, which no Arendelle wedding would feel complete without.

            The couple had a few hours to mill about in the audience hall, take congratulations, and accept wedding gifts. Dancing and music took over the occasion over and over again, until just before a usual dinner might be served, the crowd put Kristoff and Anna onto Sven and paraded them out of the castle and down to the docks, where their own vessel awaited to take husband and wife on their honeymoon.

            Tears and laughter were shed and shared, and when it came time to leave, Anna held Elsa the longest, then got on the boat with a cheerful wave. Elsa and most of the guests waited on the docks until Anna and Kristoff were too small to see well anymore before turning back and walking up to the castle. Bells rang as the party returned to the courtyard, where the trolls thanked Queen Elsa for hosting them and took their leave.

            Several other guests disembarked, including Crown Prince Dorian of the Southern Isles. He took Queen Elsa aside to tell her what he had decided for Hans, offering her quite a few incentives for hosting the soon-to-be-reinstated prince until Dorian could deal with their brothers accordingly. She began to argue that Dorian could just take his brother back with him, but the Crown Prince would hear none of it, finally saying that he didn’t think Hans would ever be safe in the Southern Isles, nor would he ever enjoy his homeland again. “Too much has happened to him there,” Dorian said, “Please, Queen Elsa, host him a while longer, and when he is safe to leave, send him somewhere nice.”

            She thought about her words, several days ago, about how Hans owed her a debt, and gave her answer: “I will host your brother… for now. I expect the things you’ve offered for his keeping within this season and the next.”

            “Thank you, Your Grace,” Dorian said, with a sad but relieved smile, “One more thing—,” he removed an envelope from his jacket and held it out to the Queen, “—Would you make sure Hans gets this? I don’t think he’ll want to say goodbye to me. No fond hugs, I’m afraid.”

            Dorian left quickly after that, taking his men with him and leaving one restive dun-colored horse in the stables and hoping that his brother would read his letter. 

* * *

             Hans had been at the back of the chapel briefly during the wedding, not sure why he had done so, other than having a sort of closure. Despite his schemes and meddling, and despite his incursion into their lives, it seemed to him that Princess Anna and Queen Elsa lived and thrived as though he hadn’t at all. The idea that his best attempt at obtaining a throne had amounted to being tortured for a year and castrated, only to be seemingly forgotten as though he never existed, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Was it that he wanted to have touched their lives in some lingering way? From his vantage point, which was terribly narrow and selfish, nothing he had done in his life had had an impact. He had returned to his room before the vows were completed, and drank two appropriated bottles of cold glogg before passing out on his bed. He felt as empty as he ever had, only now, he had no idea how to fill the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lag between last chapter and this one. 
> 
> I can try to do better this next time, but... no promises. Life can get busy... chapters can get long.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. Concealed and Abused

            At a purposed-but-not-brisk walk, a maid wound her way up through the bowels of Arendelle’s castle. She passed through doors with a shove of her hip or shoulder, her basket of linens on an important journey from the washroom where it had dried, to a bedroom in the upper regions of the palatial residence. It occurred to her to be thankful she was fit, because tackling flights of stairs with a basket of what could only be described as dense cloth would be impossible with any extra girth. She did this nearly every day, and at the rate it was going, it would be every day quite soon. It wasn’t something she begrudged doing. Any extra weight she had had hidden around seemed to have melted off, and her husband had noticed. If it weren’t for her being barren, the maid would likely be in a similar predicament to the woman which she carried the linens. The maid finally found herself on the wing she had been climbing to and moved down the hall as though she had not just carried the equivalent weight of a large dog up from the servant’s wing.

            She stopped outside of the door and knocked. It was not answered, so the maid balanced the linens on one knee and twisted the handle, entering the room with calm and practiced ease. She should have knocked louder.

            The bed, a huge mattress atop an ornate and highly polished frame, was visible in its own room through a large folding-door partition, and the occupants were not prepared for the unexpected company. In fact, they seemed to be in the middle—or end—of the most intimate of acts. The sound of the door closing caught their attention, and man and wife did a little shriek of embarrassment. Scrambling took place, the woman pulling herself off the top and hiding under the covers while her husband pulled his side of the covers up to his chin. The air settled for a second before both lovers realized that the maid was simply standing at the door with the basket in her hands, looking perhaps shocked but not in the least embarrassed.

            “Look away, Linnéa!” came from the woman, and from the man, “Turn around!”

            The maid dropped the basket at her feet—avoiding her toes—and crossed her arms. She even went so far as to look annoyed. “Now, just because I walked in on you two bumping uglies doesn’t give you the right to throw out your manners. I’m not your slave. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen that before, or anyone’s private parts. I used to fornicate for money, remember?”

            “Please?!” the wife said, having to put a hand on her husband’s arm to keep him from climbing out of the bed naked and throttling the maid, who was never shy to remind anyone that she used to be a whore. With a huff, Linnéa turned around and faced the door, giving the couple ample time to put on house coats or whatever else they wanted to throw on in a hurry. She almost laughed aloud at the mental image of the pair trying to modest themselves up. “Why were you still in bed at this hour anyway? Don’t you know it’s almost noon?” the maid asked, speaking up to be heard in the other room.

            “We had a late night,” came the reply from the wife.

            “It was too cold to get up,” answered the husband.

            In a good-natured but haughty manner, the maid turned back around, not wanting to waste any more time with her nose to the door. The married pair were hasty in closing their garments, again looking embarrassed but with a touch of harassed fury overlying it. “Get over yourselves,” was all the maid said in reply, lifting her basket, “We’re all born naked.” She walked past them into the room with the bed, and started the arduous task of stripping the sheets and replacing them. Sheepishly, the woman went to stand against her husband, head leaning on his shoulder. They watched the maid without the slightest intention to help. That was the way Linnéa liked it, and neither liked risking slight slaps to “helping” hands.

            None of the other maids would dare act so familiar or brashly with the couple, being that the woman was the Princess of Arendelle. If it weren’t for Anna’s appreciation of the “normal” treatment, Kristoff would already have put an end to Linnéa’s easy attitude—or tried, at least. It just wasn’t in Linnéa to bow and scrape. She had a habit of treating her friends like everyone else, and she included the royal couple in that lot now.

            It took a good five minutes to redo the bedding, which was stripped unceremoniously, dropped to the side, and replaced by the clean linens confidently and quickly. The maid set the bedspread like she knew Anna liked it, placed the rolled sheets into the basket and weaved her way out of the bedroom towards the door. “Your presence was missed at breakfast, dearies. Go and get something to eat, for the sake of that baby,” she said, teasingly authoritative, before exiting.

            Having snuck one last peak as she left, Linnéa smiled as she headed back down to the laundry, the image of the couple, Anna and Kristoff, both lovingly touching the growing bulge of her stomach. Bouncing, almost, down the stairs, Linnéa imagined how wonderfully noisy the castle was going to get in another three months. She passed Yule decorations on her way down as though they were not a reminder that it was close to the longest night of the year, happily expecting a spring baby for the Princess and husband.

 

* * *

 

            Six months prior, Queen Elsa had just seen her baby sister off at the docks, who—despite her own isolation and insecurities—had never been the type to have social anxiety, and, of course, was the first to get married and was going on her honeymoon, leaving the Queen with a decidedly bad feeling pressing on her shoulders. It wasn’t like Anna wasn’t an adult, or that she had married the wrong man, or that where she and he were going was dangerous—actually, they were going to the southern sea, which was supposedly warm, crystalline, and beautiful year-round—, so, the monarch couldn’t wrap her brain around what the issue was with Anna’s marriage. Whatever it was, Elsa unconsciously tried to push it aside, and when she remembered Prince Dorian’s letter to his brother, she decided to concern herself with delivering it as a distraction.

            That led to the discovery of the soggy, sauced puddle of a half-man who had tried to drink himself into oblivion with two bottles of alcohol. He’d done well in his goal, so deliriously drunk that he was barely responsive to the sound of her voice or the impatient touch of her hand in anger. Oh, and how _angry_ she had become! How _dare_ he drink _her_ glögg, in _her_ castle, under _her_ sanctuary?! Hans could drink himself into a stupor in the gutter, Elsa thought, and the idea of actually putting him out on the street was so, so very tempting as she left his room to find Egon and Linnéa. That pair was found in the castle and brought to Hans’ room by the two maids she had found first. Waiting in his doorway, Elsa didn’t miss the shiver of the married couple as they entered Hans’ bedroom. Clucking and fussing about him, their breath visible in the cold air. She had left after flinging Prince Dorian’s letter on Hans’ small nightstand, completely irritated.

            Elsa’s day was unusually repugnant from there on; she had returned to her bedroom fuming over being left with such an insolent house guest—too good a title for him, but without the profanity that found its way into her head—and again she wished that she was on the North Mountain in her ice palace. The Queen had too much time alone to fume, which quickly decorated her room with a thin layer of frost. In the heat of the afternoon, without continuous cold intent being pushed onto the frost, it started to melt, leaving every surface in her room covered in tiny water droplets. As annoying as that was, she didn’t want to call up some maid or butler to wipe everything in her room off. She tried freezing the droplets only, which naturally went awry in her emotional upheaval, and was stuck in a room of powdered snow. To take a few calming breaths and remember that “love will thaw” seemed overwhelmingly impossible. She sat in the snow on her bed and enumerated all the reasons why this day hadn’t gone at all like she wanted it to, wedding aside.

            First, Prince Dorian and Hans were complications she did _not_ need. They were aggravating reminders that being head of state, no matter how enticing it was to others, was mostly only frustrating. She didn’t mind being the Queen of Arendelle, but being a political chess player was something she could have done without. It was one of the things that “came with the territory,” however. Secondly, Hans himself was a problem. When he was revealed to be alive to the Southern Isles, surely at least one of his other brothers would attempt to reclaim him as their prisoner. Not only that, but until such a time as he could leave the castle, would Elsa really have to put up with him drinking or otherwise trying to drown himself in something other than misery? No, Elsa answered firmly in her own mind. No, she wouldn’t, because she would give him an ultimatum—that was her right, since he was imposing on her hospitality. He could either be put out in the street, free to drink himself to death, or, he could remain in the castle, where it was safe, sober. No in-between. She would not have a lush depleting her stores of valuable alcohol, period. It didn’t matter that he was a eunuch, seeking political asylum in her country, hunted by his own brothers. No, it didn’t matter.

            Lastly,—and this was the thing that gave Elsa the most trouble—she was not reacting well to Anna’s wedding and far-off honeymoon. A part of her felt guilty that she wasn’t over-the-moon ecstatic about the nuptials, gaining a brother, and maybe having nieces and-or nephews in the near-to-distant future. That wasn’t normal, Elsa thought, brining on its cacophony of emotions about how unequipped she was to deal with normal things. In a corner in her mind, she had jealousy, too, but this she kept glossing over, refusing to acknowledge it for what it was. If she had, Elsa would know that her jealousy stemmed from a) being the older, unmarried sister to the bride, b) wanting to have her own love, someone who could accept the fact that she was a person with an incredible supernatural power, and also accept that she would never be “good” at relationships, especially her own, and c) that Elsa seriously doubted that she would ever find someone who could meet those requirements and still love her. A part of her brain recognized all that and kept quiet, perhaps sad that even after a good year with love and acceptance in her life, she was no closer to erasing the self-doubt than she had ever been.

            So, even later in that evening, eating dinner with the remainder of the wedding party, Elsa’s mood had not lifted nor improved. She went to bed and couldn’t sleep, waking from a doze with a start each time she got close, feeling the dregs of unease tug her back up, out of peaceful oblivion. Sometime in the darkness, Elsa did fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

            That next day, six months ago, Hans had been set in a chair in the library where he had left Anna to freeze to death, and told to wait for the Queen. The hangover resulting from the two bottles of ill-thought-out glögg was horrendous, and he spent most of the morning retching up his guts, and most of the time he sat in the chair sitting forward to rest his arms on the table and his forehead on those. Queen Elsa was quick about meeting him, however, so he wasn’t there for a long time. She wasn’t particularly quiet when she came through the doors, and definitely wasn’t quiet when she started talking.

            Between the headache and hangover, Hans only got the gist of what she was lecturing him about. The alcohol. The disrespect of trying to develop a habit while under her protection. The ultimatum. The anger in her voice. Hans supposed that Queen Elsa didn’t like alcohol for her own uses, at all. For a moment, he could understand why. If she ever got drunk enough to lose control, she could probably freeze not only her own kingdom, but the neighboring ones as well. And, while he was thinking about it, she’d probably freeze Anna, Kristoff, and the rest of anyone she cared about. That was her problem, though, and Hans wasn’t feeling particularly charitable.

            “So?” Elsa had asked, “What will it be? The gutter and glögg, or, the castle and your safety?”

            How sorely tempted he was to spite her in that moment. He was like a wounded animal, wanting to lick his wounds and be left alone in peace. That would be suicide, wouldn’t it, living in the streets of Arendelle? And hadn’t he realized that he didn’t actually want to die, but had been afraid of more torture?

            “I am sorry for actions, Queen Elsa,” Hans said, meeting her gaze steadily—not an easy task when the room spun—adding, “It won’t happen again. Please, allow me to stay, though I don’t deserve it.” Self-deprecation usually helped to convince someone of his apology, though he didn’t know if it would convince the Queen.

            “You may stay, so long as you assure me that you will not touch my stocks of wine, liquor, mead, and glögg again so long as you are being harbored in my kingdom,” Elsa laid out plainly. Hans wasn’t particularly surprised by her response, stipulations such as these being a no-brainer for anyone who wanted to put an end to his drinking. The Queen didn’t realize how little desire Hans had to ever consume copious amounts again. “You have my assurance. I will not seek out alcohol again, from anyone.”

            Their meeting at an end, Hans and Elsa had gone separate ways. He returned to his room with the aid of his cane, unwilling to face any more Queens, veterans, ex-whores, or brothers, and shut himself in without the will to come back out until he had decided what else he could occupy his time with. Alcohol was out, but what other mind-numbing substances he could get his hands on. His promise had extended only to alcohol for that reason. If he had to sit alone in his room, the wallpaper his only entertainment, surely Hans would go mad, and he had nothing else to fill his time.

            He’d heard—never mind that it came from one of his brothers, the one that traveled, Stanley—that in the far East that there were certain types of system opiates that would make his head spin and send him into a fit of laughter. Knowing his luck, Hans could imagine among his reactions: reliving his worst moments in the jail in horrible detail, death by overdose, paralysis caused by the same thing, and a more fanciful imagining of being incapacitated long enough to be recaptured by Lumpy and be taken back to his brothers. There’d be no drug to release him there, either.

            Back to the beginning of not having anything to do, Hans looked over at the piece of paper the Queen had mentioned at some point during her lecture, which she said was a letter from Dorian. Not having anything better to do, Hans opened the letter, recognizing his eldest brother’s flowing script instantly. He read it once, paused, and read it again. He read it out loud to make sure he wasn’t mistranslating things in his brain.

_Brother,_

_You cannot imagine what a relief it is to know you are alive. I’ll spare you my feelings, however, because you surely just scoffed at what I call “alive.” When I return to the Southern Isles, you will be reinstated as a Prince. I will send the promised boat to Arendelle as soon as I can gather your things together. I have to be brief because I will be leaving shortly, knowing that you will not likely miss me._

_There is a particular horse in the stables. Consider him the first thing returned to you._

_Dorian_

            Hans let the letter drop from numb fingers, drawn to his feet by some force he didn’t understand but couldn’t fight any more than he could fight the need to breathe. He teetered where he stood and had to find his cane with the same numb digits, leaning on it heavily. Who could he find to lead him to the stables? Wait, he knew the way, didn’t he? He had been there with Anna a year ago on the night of Elsa’s coronation. He could find it himself, again, Hans thought, and that was one of the few things he could think of outside of: _Can I truly hope for this?_

Several turns and a trip outside led him right where he wanted to be, and he hobbled as fast as his leg could manage, coming to a stop just inside the stable and allowing himself a moment so his eyes would adjust. _Where was he?_ Hans’ mind frantically asked, finally starting the sweep of horses in the stables. Tipping forward almost to the point of falling, the invalid almost landed face first in used hay, only saving himself with an outstretched hand. The overwhelming emotions were making his head spin, and all he wanted to do was lay eyes upon the horse mentioned in Dorian’s letter. So, Hans moved down the stalls, looking over each occupant closely, and startling more than a few with what he could only assume was the blazing, intense stare of a madman.

            There he was, Hans realized, the strength in his leg giving out right then, crushed down by the sight of the horse; tall for a fjord hose, dark dun in color, and looking at him with two large brown eyes. Hans had to drag himself along the stable’s dirt floor and use the hook of his cane to pull himself upright.

            “Sitron,” croaked the human, sounding nothing like the man he used to be. The horse’s ears pricked forward in a semblance of alarm as the unknown—or at least unrecognizable—visitor reached out to lay a straining hand on whatever part of him the man could touch. Hans repeated the name, sounding a little more like himself, and the horse paused in surprise.  Without a hint of trepidation, the soon-to-be-reinstated prince reached out and touched a hand to Sitron’s muzzle, breaking down when the horse recognized him.

 

* * *

 

            One month, almost to the day, after Kristoff and Anna’s wedding, they returned to Arendelle and a crowd of well-wishers. Anna came off the boat on the arm of her husband, happy to be home at last, and able to smile and say hello genuinely, but felt nauseous in a way that wasn’t caused by the sea. She moved down the plank practically hanging onto the ice-harvester for steadiness. Once her feet were on steady ground, the first person who found her to hug her tightly was Elsa. Her sister was also the first—and only—to recognize that her sister was under the weather. The Princess waved the Queen’s worries away with a pass of her hand when she saw the question in her blue eyes.

            The Queen looked quite fabulous, even for her usual self. That day, Elsa had fashioned a… more risqué dress than normal, the blue—light and dark—ice crystals of her bodice were split down her middle almost to her navel, only covered with a mesh-like overlay that was only meant for keeping the dress together. Her shoulders were covered with a heavier blue cape instead of her normal train. Anna fixed the image of her sister in her mind consciously, the blues of Elsa’s dress against the gray dock-stone, the late-summer breeze playing with the light in Elsa’s pale hair, and the sparkling happiness that seemed to touch everything. Then again, maybe the sparkling had more to do with Anna’s nausea.

            As wonderful as their honeymoon had been, Anna was happy just to be home.

            They had left the docks to go to the castle in a party much the same as they’d left the castle in a party to see the couple off at the docks after the wedding. The staff of the Arendelle monarchy spared no effort in welcoming home the royals—Kristoff was technically Prince Kristoff Bjorgman of Arendelle, with a Duke’s title in there as well, elevated by Queen Elsa, but he expressly forbid them holding a ceremony for his promotion—having been party to the party at the docks, and had still more waiting in the castle’s courtyard for their arrival. Olaf had gotten the warmest hug Anna had thought he could stand, and promptly rushed to Sven’s side, hugging the reindeer’s nose with his stick arms.

            Sven had done well in the heat of the southern sea. He acted as though he were hot only a few times, mostly taking running leaps off the boat whenever Kristoff and Anna were also in the water when the tundra-made animal overheated. Hindsight, maybe Sven should have remained at home, where the summer heat never reached that stifling level. Not that Anna planned to leave again, but if they did, and went somewhere tropical, Sven would have to stay home, no matter how Kristoff protested. It wasn’t good for the reindeer.

            Anna and Kristoff went through round and round of people welcoming them back. Somewhere between the gates and the ornate front door, Egon and Linnéa welcomed them back warmly. Kristoff shook hands with the Southern Isles veteran, and Anna hugged the maid. In one month, they had seemed to have integrated into the staff seamlessly, which made the Princess happy, if for no other reason than that there wouldn’t be any more fights in the laundry room.

            Some hours after their arrival, Anna, Kristoff, and Elsa sat down to a light lunch, electing to eat on one of the castle’s balconies and enjoy one of the few warm days left of summer. Anna wasn’t surprised when Elsa coated her chair in ice, half-tempted to have Elsa do the same to her chair. The southern sea’s weather had been hot, but there hadn’t been quite as much humidity to the air there as there was in Arendelle on the truly hot days. She wasn’t surprised when later in the evening a thunderstorm rolled through, all crashing thunder, dazzling lightning, and violent rain.

            When Kristoff and Anna retired to their bedroom as the sun set—after an uneventful dinner alone with Elsa—neither one of them could hardly make it behind closed doors without immediately savaging the other with kisses. Anna’s fears about her wedding night had been unfounded as it turned out, because the pair had apparently been made to fit together, which she had discovered that first night on the ship. Kristoff had been gentle with her, but only to the point of making her comfortable. When her shyness had worn off, Anna had… held her own.

            That first night back in the castle, with a month of practice—give or take a few exhausted nights —Anna and Kristoff “christened” the bed, the lounge seat by the coffee table, and the door that they had closed behind them. It awakened a whole new side of Anna to be enjoying the intimate marital life, wherein the middle of the day found her pining for her husband’s touch, and the evenings wouldn’t allow her to be without him for very long. It gave her insight, as well, into the minds of those who knew what it was to biblically “know” another. In some small way, Anna grew up; gone was the innocence, so to speak. For all that she knew about what men and women did, now, the Princess wondered about her sister. Something in Anna couldn’t imagine Elsa having the calm it would take to not freeze her first lover, much less open up to a stranger enough to want to marry them. It wasn’t about courage—Anna knew that Elsa was a brave woman—but about being able to calm a frantic heart, talk past a suddenly awkward tongue, and speak from her heart without worrying what her companion thought of her. Ice powers would certainly prove to be a difficult point of contention between Elsa and her suitors.

            Anna had settled closely against Kristoff, despite the heat, and nodded off with thoughts about other royalty in the world with magical powers, wondering if any were eligible princes or kings. Her last conscious thought was that anyone would do, royal or not, so-long-as they were as magical as the Queen.

 

* * *

 

            In the days that followed their return to Arendelle, Kristoff hardly left Anna, aside from going to the stables to see Sven. The morning after their arrival, however, the reindeer-man made a curious discovery: Hans, practically living in the hayloft. Kristoff would have missed seeing the ex-prince if not for the latter’s movements as he dressed. All Kristoff could do on the ground below was look up and wonder why in the world the bastard—yes, he still had hard feelings for the man who would have let Anna die—was without clothes in the stables. Hans noticed Kristoff quickly, it seemed, because at first he tried to duck out of sight, shirt half-pulled over his head. When he realized he couldn’t hide, the man from the Southern Isles straightened his spine and climbed down from the loft.

            Surprise marked Kristoff’s face momentarily when he realized that Hans looked much more like himself than he had just a month-or-so before. The man’s hair was still long, clasped at the nape of his neck with a leather thong, and he still had no sideburns, but otherwise, Hans was healthier looking. There wasn’t any spare weight on him, and Hans wasn’t back to his previous physique, but Kristoff could see only the ghost of torture on the man.

            “What are you doing here?” Kristoff asked, the once-over appraisal having only taken a fraction of a second. Hans’ eyebrows twitched down quickly, only to return to their raised-to-the-point-of-facial-openness position in the time it took to blink. He didn’t answer with words, but moved cautiously over to one of the stalls where an unfamiliar horse was penned. With a confident hand, Hans summoned the horse from the further wall to put his nose against the human flesh.

            “My horse.”

            “That doesn’t explain why you were in the loft,” Kristoff parried the answer, finding it lacking. Hans let his hand drop and kept up the cautious act. “Queen Elsa allowed me the space for the warmer months. I’ve been sleeping up there instead of in the castle.”

            “Oh,” Kristoff said, suddenly running out of fuel for the badgering questions. He had one left, “Even if your horse is here, why _are_ you not sleeping in the castle?” He’d never seen the castle of Hans’ native land, but as far as castles went, Kristoff was pretty impressed with Arendelle’s, so he didn’t imagine Hans thought it was bad in any way. Besides, the man had plotted to take the Kingdom for his own, so he must have liked it to some degree. If that wasn’t it, Kristoff couldn’t quite imagine what the reason could be.

            It took a moment for Hans to prepare an answer, it seemed. He had to cross his arms and then uncross them, looking at his horse and finally back at Kristoff. “I might be the most ungrateful refugee in Arendelle’s history, but… living in the castle was driving me mad.” Hans explained nothing further, looking his horse in the eye before patting the creature and taking his own leave, heading for the very structure he had just claimed to be unable to inhabit. Getting food or using the privy couldn’t quite be considered “inhabiting” a building, Kristoff thought in reply to himself, watching the one-time prisoner cross the courtyard.

            Sven and Kristoff shared a look, neither buying into whatever Hans wanted them to believe. “‘I don’t trust him,’” Kristoff voiced for Sven, replying, “I don’t, either. And I don’t like him living in the loft. I’ll see what Anna thinks, and maybe talk to Elsa. He’s not a guest. He’s a refugee, like he said.”

            “‘That’s great,’” Sven plowed on, “‘Did you bring me my carrots?’”

            With a long-suffering sigh, followed by a smirk, Kristoff produced the orange vegetable like a carnival magician. The reindeer pranced in his stall as only he could, tongue rolling almost like a dog. The whole thing disappeared before Kristoff had a chance to tell Sven to share. Shaking his head, Kristoff rolled his eyes and dug out another carrot.

            Hours later, when Anna and her sister could both be found in the library with the portrait of their father, Kristoff asked about the use of the hay loft as a bedroom by Hans. It was news to Anna, who hadn’t had the benefit of being told first, like Kristoff had planned. Elsa didn’t look so much as surprised to hear her brother-in-law asking about it. If he had to guess, she probably wondered what had taken him so long to ask. Placidly, she gave an answer, “Prince Dorian has offered to not collect taxes on exports to Arendelle, which will likely encourage trade between our two countries and keep the price of meats, furs, and other materials down, all in exchange for harboring Prince Hans until it is safe for him to live elsewhere. Arendelle can harbor him whether he lives in the castle or in the hay loft in the stables.”

            The answer had been satisfactory enough, all things considered, but Kristoff just didn’t like it. Being in the castle where they could keep an eye on him was one thing, but being in the stable, practically free to do as he pleased, that seemed a little too lenient for Hans. For all his protests, Kristoff wondered for a second if the real reason that he didn’t want Hans living in the stable was because of Sven. Sure, Sven had survived the night, and Hans couldn’t be all that bad if he had a horse’s trust, but Sven was his best friend. If anything happened to the reindeer, Kristoff had already decided that it would be on Hans’ head. That night and in the following weeks, that was all he heard on the matter.

 

* * *

 

            Another month passed before it was made communal knowledge that Princess Anna was with child. They did not spread the news outside the castle—even if rumors and gossips were positively twittering with excitement—because as exciting as it was, it was still very early, and truth be told, no one knew how the pregnancy would go. It seemed like no one in the castle could find the nerve to get their hopes up. Anna was the most optimistic, of course.

            Elsa was the first person she told aside from Kristoff. The Queen’s reaction was mostly joyous surprise, and partially some sort of sadness. Anna understood it before she asked her sister what was wrong, but she thought it might have been the first time that Elsa admitted it to herself. “It’s not that I’m not happy for you, Anna, because I am. I’m so happy for you, because you deserve all the happiness you can accumulate… I think… I’m jealous, and that makes me sad; makes me mad at myself. I can live without romance… I could probably live without having children—I worry about them being born like me—but I haven’t lost hope that maybe one day I can have those things. Seeing you have them already, it makes me sort of jealous.” Understandably, the sisters spent the rest of that day in each other’s company.

            Anna, at first, wanted to ban everyone and anyone from breathing a word of her pregnancy to Linnéa, Egon, or Hans. It was not feasible, however, and when she had brought it up with Kristoff, it had led to their first tiff as a married couple. He took her not wanting to tell everyone as embarrassment, that she was perhaps ashamed to be having his baby. She tried to assure him that his idea was the furthest from the truth. It went back and forth until Anna resolved to tell Hans, Egon, and Linnéa at dinner that very night. She did feel bad that Kristoff hadn’t been as far off the mark as she first thought—announcing to the maid, veteran, and her ex-fiancé that she was pregnant seemed awkward in her imagination.

            It was funny how that dinner had actually gone. Egon and his wife had not been a normal part of their dinner party since Anna and Kristoff’s wedding, though not of Elsa, Anna, or Kristoff’s choosing. The pair didn’t seem comfortable being waited on by their co-workers, and opted out most of the time. They didn’t have a choice, however, since telling Hans alone was completely not within Anna’s comfort-zone. Elsa and Hans had not dinned together while the Princess and her husband were on their honeymoon. Aside from Hans asking to be allowed to live above his horse, he hadn’t spoken much with Elsa at all, or so Anna found out from her sister. Elsa wasn’t sure what Hans would have said anyway.

            During the dinner, directly after the main course, Anna finally worked up the nerve to spill the beans, metaphorically. All eyes were on her as she grabbed their attention with a well-placed and loud clearing of her throat. “Um… I—” Anna quickly amended her speech, “—We, that is… Well,…” She stammered when she realized she had everyone’s undivided attention, including the butler pouring the watered wine into Kristoff’s cup. “Kristoff and I are pregnant.”

            She couldn’t help searching the faces of the people gathered around her. The butler managed to pour some of the light-colored wine outside of his target and was nearly frenzied in his dabbing. Elsa and Kristoff were also looking at the other three, and Egon and Linnéa seemed to have frozen except for a duplicate look on their faces: what was Hans’ reaction? It took only the spans of a baited breath, but the reaction was delivered too quickly not to be sincere.

            “Congratulations!” Hans exclaimed, face breaking into a wide smile. Anna wasn’t sure why such a smile, seemingly sincere, without a shred of malice, also seemed so deceptive. It might have been the “once-burned” example of a lack of trust, but it seemed too genuinely happy. Linnéa was fast at adding her own congratulations, a beaming beacon of sweetness, while her husband only added gruff-but-warm-seeming felicitations. She could almost imagine what the man was thinking, because it likely mirrored her own thinking; why did Hans seem happy to hear that she was having a baby?

            “Why are you so happy to hear that I’m having a baby?” came tumbling out of Anna’s mouth before her mind had a chance to stop it. Truth be told, she’d never had much of a filter. Hans looked affronted for a second, thin, hairless face finally looking something like it had when he had shown his true colors in the library—a face she could understand and read—before answering with the smoothed out unreadable face, “I thought it was only polite to congratulate an expecting couple. I didn’t think you would want to hear anything else from me.”

            “Anna, it’s fine,” Kristoff said in an undertone at the end of Hans’ sentence. Elsa had set down her drink and was looking at her with knitted brows. Why was it her fault that Hans wasn’t acting like she expected him to? It was like they thought she was being rude. “So, you didn’t mean what you said?”

            “No,” Hans said, clamping his mouth down, “No. You’ve got it wrong, Princess Anna. I did mean it when I said congratulations.”

            “Why?” Anna could suddenly hear how it might be coming off as rude, but couldn’t back-wheel fast enough out of the mindset and tone of voice, “It might have been a ploy to marry into the throne, but you were my fiancé once. I don’t want to go back to that, but—,”

            “—But you were hoping I’d be jealous?” Hans asked, cutting her off. Anna had kept her eyes firmly on the green pair staring back at her unflinchingly, “Maybe that I would be mad, or sulk off like I was truly hurt that you had moved on?” Hans laughed, not scoffed, and not a mean sort of laugh, either. He sounded almost disappointed. “Oh, Anna,” he said, those two words making her flinch, “You found the perfect person for you, and you’re married to him, and you’re carrying his child. Despite me, and all I did to you, you’re doing fine. What isn’t there to congratulate?”

            That was not the answer she was expecting. In fact, it caught her mostly by surprise. Anna frowned, then watched as Hans stood from his chair, bowed to Elsa, bowed to her and Kristoff, and smiled at Egon and Linnéa. “If you’ll all excuse me, I believe I’ll return to the stables for the evening. Good-night.”

            As he disappeared, Anna felt a compilation of guilt, aggravation, and confusion as to why she had dogged such a confession from Hans. It crossed her mind as they finished their dinner in relative silence that Hans would be having no children, with anyone, ever, and how her announcement might have pricked that tender nerve—if he had one about it. She was still bothered by the genuine-feel of his well-wishes, but quickly forgot most of her worries behind her and Kristoff’s closed door.

 

* * *

 

Late autumn, with all its colorful leaves and harvests, arrived at the same time as the promised ship from the Southern Isles. Hans was not yet cold enough overnight to move back into the castle, but he didn’t think there would be much more time for his sleeping in the loft. Anna was obviously pregnant, and prone to mood-swings that left everyone but Kristoff with the urge to avoid another thrashing. Even Queen Elsa seemed not to enjoy being around her sister, though Anna could never be so much as negative with her sister. Linnéa seemed to have some insight as to why the normally kind princess was a nightmare, not from personal experience, but as an outside party.

            “Girls,” she said to Elsa while Hans was within ear-shot one day, “They’d get themselves in a state, and they’d be happy one minute, and then crying another, or mad enough to throw things. I’m not proud to say I wasn’t the type to be too forgiving until one day, a doc was checking up on one of them. She was one of the Madam’s girls, and pretty young, like Princess Anna. She’d been like that. Anyway, I hear him telling our boss that when a girl is in a state like that, it’s because of the baby. The baby can’t tell her how it feels, but it does have a way of tampering with how she feels. Quick, fast changes.”

            It sounded like hocus pocus to Hans, but if Linnéa thought it was true, who was he to disagree? He’d never be a father. It wouldn’t, or shouldn’t concern him.

            Hans had his work cut out for him when the ship arrived. Not only was it something of a colossal goat-buggering quality to get it all at once, but Hans wasn’t even sure what to do with half, if not all of it. His room in the castle was big enough only for his bed, a chair, the bedside table, and his few sets of clothes. All his belongings in the Southern Isles would fill not only his room, but probably come spewing out of his door like too much dung. He committed himself to first emptying the ship and sending a letter of thanks back to Dorian, and sorting out his things to keep later. Egon, Linnéa, and two of the crew helped Hans load the belongings onto three carts, each piled high. The head butler caught them before they could leave the town for the castle, offering to guide them to a place Queen Elsa urged the re-instated prince to store his things. It was the very same house she had offered to Linnéa and Egon in the beginning, which was so close to both its neighbors that one side was only inches from the next wall and the other side only gave room enough for a wide-shouldered man to squeeze through. The maid lit up at the sight of the tall house, walking through from front to back and then from bottom to top with a slack-jawed wide-eyed gaze. Hans asked the two crewman of the ship, at the risk of dumping valuables and breakables alike in the street, to help unload all his belongings into the house. The task was complete just before sunset, a pile of un-placed objects sitting in the parlor, but many more having found homes in the three bedrooms, kitchen, and attic.

            Tired, the crewmen parted for their ship, and Hans for the stable. Egon and Linnéa elected to stay the night in their new house and return to the castle in the morning. A kind of relief crossed Hans’ mind to feel—he could leave Arendelle now, and he could travel far from it, his homeland and brothers, and anyone who had ever heard of Prince Hans of the Southern Isles. He’d be out of their reach, and really and truly be free. Hans imagined himself exploring the world—maybe he’d even go across the ocean. Either by reading or by word of mouth, he had heard that in the West, vast expanses of grasslands fed whole herds of wild horses and bison. They were free to roam as they pleased.

            The cage was open, and he was free to go.

            As Hans rounded the end of the street, he was unaware of the shadow that detached itself from the nearest wall until its owner violently twisted one of his arms behind his back and wrapped a strong arm under his chin. Taken entirely by surprise and slightly exhausted by the day’s toils, Hans was incapable of fighting off the impending attack, and the arm at his neck cut off the air he needed to call out for help. The assailant pulled Hans into the shadows beside a building, easily driving Hans’ face against the wall—the only reason such a move missed breaking his nose was because Hans managed to twist his face enough that his cheek absorbed the brunt of the attack. What felt like a layer of skin was scraped from the surface, an immediate pain lancing in. The wall was made of a rough wooden siding; the wood had let loose a swatch of splinters into the skin. As slow as it all seemed, the capture had taken only a moment.

            “I have a message for you from your brothers,” said the captor, hot breath hissing into Hans’ ear and making him flinch, “‘Don’t try and leave Arendelle. Let the Icy Bitch keep you as a toy in her castle a little longer.’” The arm was twisted further, until Hans thought it might rip off. The arm on his neck also tightened, to the point that Hans gasped for breath and none was allowed. “They said, too, ‘If you do try, our men’—and they have quite a few under their pay—‘will drag you back to the Southern Isles and do to you all the things we never got to do.’”

            All the pressure was suddenly lifted, and Hans dropped to the ground, catching a booted kick to his gut where he lay. The attacker had one last thing to say before he disappeared: “If you go to the docks, you’re ours. If you try to leave over the mountains, you’re ours. Don’t get too comfortable in your stable, either. All we need is the opportunity. I’ll see you around, ‘Prince’ Hans.”

            The cage was shut, and it seemed he had narrowly missed being crushed between the bars.

 

* * *

 

Egon, who had lived his entire life in the Southern Isles or on campaigns to winterless places far South, was absolutely unprepared for the winter of Arendelle. The first snow blanketed the kingdom with a snow as deep as his hand; it was also almost a month before the Southern Isles even thought about snow. The temperature also dropped, as if no sane sunbeam would venture this far north to give warmth to weary souls. Egon was not the only one to notice the harshness of the early winter.

            Every day, Elsa was petitioned to use her powers to lift the snow off of the castle-town by at least three-to-five of its occupants. A farmer would appear every few days to ask her to thaw the snow on his farm. Anyone could stand in for these meetings, and Egon often did, for nothing more than a little entertainment. The Queen had to change how she answered petitions; she would wait until every issue had been heard—usually they were the same issue, sometimes worded different, sometimes no attempt to the effect was made—and answer them all exactly the same: “I will not tamper with Arendelle’s weather again. We are experiencing a naturally harsh winter. I expect you all to deal with it the same way you had.” Egon never heard more than a grumble out of the townsfolk, likely disappointed that Elsa wouldn’t fix their problems like some ice-toting Fairy-Godmother. She would leave the audience chamber, and all the other occupants would filter out or mill around bemoaning how the snow was piling up and the Queen wouldn’t even try to move it off the roads. Egon couldn’t blame the monarch, however. Just because she had powers over ice and snow didn’t mean she was at the beck and call of her people to sweep streets and clear roofs.

            A rather wet snow had fallen overnight, perhaps a month before the Yule celebrations were to begin, and Egon was on his way to see Prince Hans. The enigmatic man had returned to his room in the castle rather suddenly one night, found there after not having been seen in the stables for two days. A physician had been called, not only for the numerous splinters needing to be removed from his cheek, but because he was so lethargic that there was no difference between the young man being asleep or awake. He barely got up to use the chamber-pot, and ate little to nothing. That was just the first week. Hans seemed to snap out of it all of a sudden, returning to how he had been—almost. The prince spoke to no one. He moved about a normal routine, smiled at people, went to see Sitron, bathed, shaved, ate, but all wordlessly. Whatever had changed, Egon was certain that it was not a change for the better.

            Egon found Hans in his room, reading a volume of Arendelle’s history with what passed as bored fancy. The veteran entered the room with the occupant’s permission, all obtained in gestures. He sat down on the bed, feeling the mattress grunt out air beneath him. What Linnéa had lost from traversing the stairs for Anna and Kristoff, Egon had gained, apparently. Hans put the book away lazily and aimed a disarming smile at his former-jailer-turned-rescuer. Having not heard Hans’ voice for the majority of at least three weeks, Egon was starting to forget what it was like to talk to the man. Green eyes, white smiles, glove-free hands… these were the things that came with conversing with Hans.

            For a long moment, Egon and the prince just looked at each other, the latter holding eye-contact because the former was boring twin holes in his head with his eyes. Finally, when Egon thought he’d lose the staring contest because he couldn’t stand to look any deeper into Hans’ eyes, he said, “What is this all about, Hans? Why aren’t you talking to anyone?”

            The smile dropped off Hans’ face, being replaced with what seemed like disappointment and weariness. He reached out for the book he had put away, as if he would return to reading instead of answering Egon. It was the proverbial “last straw.” The veteran jumped to his feet and hauled Hans up by his shirt. Despite their height-difference, Egon loomed over Hans. He growled out, “Answer me. Quit playing games. You’re not a child and you’re not a mute. Tell me why you won’t talk!”

            A flash like anger briefly flickered in Hans’ eyes before dulling into a bland cowed look. He was so infuriating in that moment that Egon forcibly pushed him away, and left the room, jerking the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

            Just a couple of days later, Hans received another visitor: Queen Elsa—though she was actually of the unexpected-coincidental variety. It just happened that Elsa had had enough of the castle and that Hans was down for his daily appointment with Sitron, and suddenly, the Queen was staring at a very startled former occupant of the loft. He was not expecting to be caught, it seemed.

            “Oh,” had been the first thing out of her mouth, quickly followed by: “Pardon me.”

            It only dawned on her after a moment’s breath that she really had nothing to apologize for, considering that these were her stables, and he was here only by her permission. She didn’t voice these things, even though she could have, and left it as a courtesy. Her “Queen” beat his “Prince” at every turn, any way one sliced it. But it wasn’t in her nature to lord her title over much of anyone. The thoughts passed through her mind quickly and were gone almost as fast. Still, there was a hanging awkward silence between them, and it only seemed to be growing.

            “How are you today, Prince Hans?” the Queen ventured. She had avoided him, mostly, for the last few months, and when it was deemed necessary, she and he had made only polite small-talk. He’d been entirely absent from her for almost a month. In the scheme of things, with all her duties, Elsa didn’t pay much attention.

            He gave no audible reply, and since she had turned to scratch Sven’s chin—he was the only stable occupant that didn’t seem in the slightest shy around her—Elsa had to turn back and questioningly quirk an eyebrow at him. Clearing his throat, Hans answered, “Very well, thank you, Your Majesty.”

            Elsa was entirely unaware of how profound it was for the Prince to have said anything. Conversely, Hans would have drawn more attention to the fact that he wasn’t speaking by not speaking, especially to her. Elsa went on rubbing Sven’s muzzle and was oblivious to this.

            “How is your horse?” Elsa followed up, turning her attention slightly to the Fjord horse and its owner. The gender wasn’t obvious on the animal, likely either female or gelded male. “He’s well, also. Thank you for asking, Queen Elsa,” Hans said, not quite stiffly, but not perhaps as easily as before.

            “What is his name?” Elsa asked, not sure that she’d caught it before. Sven blew air into her hair to try and attract her attention again. She missed Hans’ quick flare of slight panic before he deadpanned and answered, “Sitron, Your Highness.”

            “‘Lemon’?” she echoed, a genuine smile curving her lips. Still panicked inside, Hans didn’t catch the amused humor in her voice. He nodded tightly and swept his eyes down to the hay scattered on the floor. “Yes. He was a gift when I turned eighteen. He was so yellow as a foal—,”

            Hans stopped short rather suddenly, eyes finding that the Queen had been listening with a slight smile, but as she caught sight of his acting uncomfortable, the smile faded. “…So yellow as a foal that I thought he looked like a lemon…” he finished, eyes going back to the subject of the moment. Sitron looked at Hans with his large brown eyes, and Elsa could almost imagine that their bond was as strong as Kristoff to Sven. “Are you feeling all-right Prince Hans?”

            The question made him flinch, and he turned his face from Elsa’s view. The action was something outside of her ability to react to normally. More-over, the way he was acting was so unlike the calm-collected version of himself that he had presented, that Elsa was realizing that she might be ill-equipped to deal with him in this state at all. She was about to back away, tell him she would go and find Egon or Linnéa, when he looked at her from the corner of his eye, looking over his shoulder, only turning himself slightly back to ask, “Why am I still here, Queen Elsa?”

            Confused, she thought his question out and came up with only one answer, or more of a response-question, “Winter travel is unusual?”

            A rather bark-like hollow laugh came from the man, and he sagged against the stall door, hands gripping the top tightly, head drooping between the two. He was quiet for a very uncomfortable moment in which Elsa still debated leaving. Finally, his voice, almost ragged, sounded out, “No… I want to know for what purpose. Why have you allowed me to stay for so long? Why haven’t they made good on their threat? If they’re going to take me back, why won’t they do it already?... I don’t want to live like this, waiting for the moment it happens. I can’t trust anyone.”

            “Wait, what?” Elsa asked, hearing the same question in her sister’s voice for some reason, “Who do you mean ‘they’? Your brothers? What threat? ‘Take you back’? What is that supposed to mean?” Elsa found that she had taken a step closer—just one step, but a step all the same—and froze, not intending to get closer for any reason. She took a deep breath, garnering a correction of posture from Prince Hans, and started over again, “Are your brothers going to attack Arendelle?”

            “No,” Prince Hans said, seemingly surprised by that assumption, “No. Only Dorian could persuade the King to… But no. He wouldn’t, and my other brothers don’t have armies at their disposal.”

            “Good. How did they threaten to take you back?” Elsa asked, not feeling very empathetic as Hans appeared to collapse again, sliding his back down the stall door to sit in the straw. “The day I moved my things into the house for Egon and Linnéa, I was attacked. The splinters that were in my face didn’t come from taking a fall in the loft like the physician assumed; they were from the side of a building. He said that I was being watched—my attacker. That I couldn’t leave without them knowing. My brothers have spies and men on the docks, or maybe in the castle, since they knew I was sleeping in here. I keep looking over my shoulder and expecting a hood to come down on my face. ‘It could be anyone,’ I keep thinking. I haven’t talked to anyone in three weeks… Well, now you, but…”

            Trying to absorb all of that as Hans talked was hard. Everything brought up more questions. “Did you see his face? The man who attacked you?”

            “No… He came at me from behind, kept a tight grip on me,” Hans said, rubbing a hand over his previously wounded cheek. “And the men he said were on the docks, did he point any out as being your brothers’ men?” Elsa doubted that, since he had gone through great pains to hide himself from Hans. “No. I didn’t see anyone else.”

            “Is it possible that this is an empty threat? That your brothers only had the one man, and hoped to break you in just the way they have?”

            “No,” Hans said, almost seeming angry for a moment, “No… they’re not that smart.”

            “They faked your death in front of your court,” Elsa suggested. She watched Hans draw his knees up to his chest and hid his face with his arms. He was quiet for a moment, long enough for Elsa to shift her feet and pat a curious Sven. Sitron had his yellow head—complete with the mane of hair Hans was letting grow to match his own—hanging over the stall door, breath blowing in Hans’ hair, curious, but subdued. “How did they know I was in the loft, then?” Hans asked, stretching to not believe that all his fear had been part of the plan.

            “Perhaps a member of the staff is the spy. If so, I will have Kai and Gerda ferret them out,” Elsa said, then added, “I can trust them, and if I ask them to, you can trust them, too.”

            The Queen watched Hans’ eyes rise from below his arms. “You already know that you can trust me, or I wouldn’t have been the first person you talked to about this.”

            “I don’t deserve… well, any of this, Your Grace,” Hans said, sounding more like himself. She looked up to the roof out, slightly, frustrated that it seemed she was repeating herself again, “No, you don’t… But you didn’t deserve the things your brothers did to you, nor what they’re trying to do now.”

            Elsa stood looking at Hans for another minute, then turned to leave, stopping at the stable’s threshold. Hans was still sitting on the floor, but had watched her, apparently. “Come inside with me, Prince Hans. I would prefer you not to be alone until I can discover the spy.”

 

* * *

 

            Yule was only a week away when a roof collapsed in the town, sending the castle into panic. The weight of the snow had proven to be too much on the older timbers of the framework. It might not have caused so much of a fuss if it hadn’t been for the family now without a home. The Queen had moved the family into the castle until a replacement house could be found or theirs’ could be repaired. A few whispers in the castle suggested that she felt partially at fault for not having done anything about the snow.

            Kristoff had been the one to suggest that they go and see the house, he and Elsa—naturally, Anna would either know and stubbornly refuse to be left behind, or no one would, particularly Kristoff, would make a big deal about leaving the castle for a few hours—go with a small group of soldiers to see what could be done about the roof. The plan worked well as far as Anna was concerned, but both Egon and Hans—who seemed to be as distant now as Hans was with Kristoff—caught wind of the plan and joined. The ice-harvester wasn’t sure at all why they had any interest.

            Nonetheless, at noon on that day, the entourage of Queen Elsa—Kristoff, Hans, Egon, and two soldiers—left the castle. Kristoff drove the sled Anna had given him, Elsa next to him. She’d dressed herself with her ice powers: a long overcoat of powder-ish blue ice crystals made to allow her arms to move, the length of which would touch and drag the ground if she walked, and would have hidden the fact that she wore trousers—again made of her ice-cloth-material—and long military-style boots, if not for having to climb into the sled beside him. Egon, Hans, and the two soldiers rode their horses behind the sleigh, only the soldiers bringing up the rear making conversation.

            “So, when we get to the house, what do you plan to do?” Kristoff asked, pulling one reign to signal Sven into a turn. The Queen, his sister-in-law, thought for a moment and then smiled a tiny bit while saying, “It’s a surprise.” This prompted a playful dialog about how surprises in their family usually went either really bad or ran them into cast-iron poles.

            “Come on. Tell me. You know you want to,” Kristoff was saying right as the house came into view. Elsa’s smile faded as she saw the hole in the tall townhouse. The roof, which was visible from the side since the house was on the end, had fallen in, taking the upper section of the room’s wall with it. Below, Kristoff helped Elsa out of the sled and the other four dismounted their horses. Six sets of eyes were glued to the side that showed the collapse. For a few moments, no one said anything.

            Elsa was the first to move, shooing the men to the side. Planting her feet in the snow only a few feet from the house, the Queen pulled her arms up to her sides, fists balled—Kristoff watched, sucking in an anticipatory breath and holding it, not having gotten many opportunities to see the Snow Queen work her magic—and pushed out, icy magic creating a structure that was beginning to coil up from the ground and into the air. With one step, Elsa gave the structure her finishing touch, the ice becoming as flawless as that first staircase. Kristoff, not for the first time, was torn between crying at the perfect ice and squealing like a little girl at how awesome it was to see anyone make anything so incredible; the latter would never actually happen out loud.

            The soldiers and Egon didn’t seem as impressed. In fact, the three of them looked so unsure about the spiral staircase that Kristoff couldn’t imagine any of them walking up that way. Hans, however, looked as interested as Kristoff believed his face could portray. When the Prince wasn’t trying to manipulate anyone, it seemed his face was allowed only a teaspoon of expressions. To Kristoff’s surprise, Hans made to follow after Elsa without batting an eye. Being closer, Kristoff was able to squeeze in between the two on the way up.

            The men had to wait on the staircase as Elsa built a balcony, reinforced by a long framework of icy scaffolding. She even made a railing, and it was just as perfect as the rest. Both Kristoff and Hans made cautious ventures out onto the balcony, looking over the railing with a mirrored apprehension.

            “There’s still snow down in the room,” the Queen explained while standing at the edge of her balcony. “I’m going to remove that and try to stabilize the roof. When I do, one of you two inform the three on the ground that it’ll be safe to go inside and clear the debris.” Elsa edged her foot onto the wooden gable; Kristoff noticed that she was more surefooted on ice than on the wooden roof. She turned back to add, “Oh, and that we’ll need a carpenter to fix the roof.”

            Hours later, said carpenter was already beginning his work. He’d only have a little daylight left before the dusk fell and it became too cold to work in the dark, regardless of lantern light. It was at this point that Kristoff suggested that the party return to the castle. Elsa had spent most of her free time after her task going house to house and seeing how the inhabitants were and how they thought their houses were doing under the weight of the snow. From the very first house, she allowed Hans to follow like a bad shadow. He would be a reasonable amount of feet away, boots covered in the snow, but there anyhow. It irked Kristoff enough that he joined Elsa from the second house on. Nearly all the occupants reacted the same way, flabbergasted at first that the Queen of Arendelle was on their porch, asking how they were, then asking her to come in and have some hot glögg or hot this or hot that—to which she always politely declined,—and each time saying that either their house was fine or that the roof groaned every now and again. They would congratulate Kristoff, too, on both his nuptials and impending fatherhood, which made him as flattered as it did uncomfortable; he didn’t know practically anyone personally, but they treated him as if he was a lifelong-dear-dear-friend. How the royals dealt with it on a daily basis all their lives and stayed sane, he’d never understand, even if he had joined their ranks.

 

* * *

 

            Yule came rather suddenly for all involved.

            The staff of the castle realized two days before the holiday that no evergreen tree could be found inside the castle. This was quickly rectified, however; a massive spruce had been hand-picked by Kai and hauled to the castle by a group of ice-harvesters. It was decorated quickly and expertly by Gerda’s command and instructions through the rest of that day and into the night. When everyone retired to bed, late that night, it seemed the fun was just beginning.

            Anna, mildly stable—most talk of her emotions were only teasing and overstatements, most—was among the first up on the Eve of the Yuletide. She had been doing her best to gather presents for those she felt comfortable giving to, and felt confident that the packages she placed on the tree would bring smiles to their recipients.

            Elsa, an early riser, too, startled the pregnant princess when she arrived to the tree with her own bag of presents. They laughed it off and chatted back and forth until all of the presents were set, then left for breakfast together.

            “…and then she just stood there!” Anna laughed, having Elsa in stitches before the food had even been served. The Queen had to hold onto her sides trying to keep her ribs from hurting. A surprising hiccup escaped her, making both Anna and Elsa laugh, though the latter was groaning through part of it. “You,” hiccup, “You mean she walked in on the two of you,” hiccup, “And just stood there?”

            “Yep,” Anna said, making a face, “She just stood there and looked at us. Guess what she said?”

            Hiccup, “I bet I know.”

            “‘I used to lay on my back for a living,’” the two sisters imitated the whore-turned-maid in unison, dissolving into giggles afterwards. They laughed themselves out for a time, conversation staying light and bouncing from subject to subject until Anna sucked in a breath and press a hand to her stomach.

            “What happened?” Elsa asked quickly, somewhat panicked that her sister seemed to be in pain, “Is it the baby?” The younger of the two shook her hair, coppery braids waggling and much longer than they were before her marriage. Pregnancy had sped up her hair growth enough that she had nearly another inch for each month. “No,” Anna answered, “Yes. I mean, its fine and I’m fine. I just got a rough kick to the ribs is all. Here, the baby’s still kicking. Give me your hand and feel it.” Anna made to take Elsa’s hand and put it on her bulging baby, but Elsa retreated from her touch.

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch you,” she reasoned. Anna shook her head and reached again saying, “It’ll be fine. I trust you, Elsa.”

            The Queen stood from her chair, almost upsetting it in her haste. Elsa made her hands into fists, crossing her arms behind her back, “I…” she began, “I… It’s not that I doubt you, Anna, but what happens if I curse the baby somehow? Or if I get worked up and freeze it? I just… I don’t think I want to take the chance.”

            Anna’s hand stayed on her stomach, over where her child grew at a seemingly exponential rate, and for just a moment her maternal instincts tried to win out over her unconditional love for her sister, losing to the stronger emotion. But for just that moment, she could see why Elsa was hesitant, could see from her perspective, could imagine the danger her unborn child could be in were she to force Elsa. But it was in Anna’s nature to blow off the instincts and put her total faith in her sister. “I don’t think you could hurt the baby, Elsa.”

            “But I could, Anna.”

            “You wouldn’t hurt it.”

            “Anna, I nearly froze you for all eternity. And I ‘wouldn’t’ hurt you, either. I just don’t have that much control where emotions are involved.”

            Anna might have said something more, but they were interrupted by breakfast and the arrival of Kristoff, Hans, and several of their Yuletide guests.

 

* * *

 

            The moment arrived when presents were to be given out, and Elsa, being the Queen of the castle, was the first to touch the glittering packages on the tree. Her first gift was to Anna, of course, who took it and opened the lid off the box, and almost instantly started to cry. Elsa had found their mother’s birthing gowns and had altered them herself to have more green in them—twenty-one years of ice powers didn’t mean the Queen had never been given lessons in embroidery.

            Her next gift was to Kristoff. The ice-harvester was much too brawny for their lean father’s clothes, alterations or not. His present was more ornamental than practical, being an icepick that had a clear Quartz handle, inlayed with blue semi-precious stones. He was enamored with it, and Elsa was happy that she had done that instead of gotten him new boots.

            To Linnéa went a rather beautiful shawl that Elsa couldn’t imagine herself wearing anymore, and to Egon went a nicer pair of boots that had extra wool sewn into the lining to keep him warm—he almost blushed to have something so nice. Kai and Gerda and most of the staff received a “free-day” waiver that most itched to use. She got to the last of her presents on the tree and felt the sting of awkwardness try to color her cheeks. The present in her hands, she turned to seek out Prince Hans; he was seemingly looking right at her, a box wrapped neatly in blue cloth and tied with a blue ribbon in his hands. Sarcastically, she wondered who it could be for, imagining that she was the clear target for such a present. Laughable, though, in a way, that she so quickly accepted the idea that he had bought a present for her.

            “Your Majesty,” Hans started, voice mechanical and nervous, “I hope you’ll accept this gift and consider it no part of what I owe to you.”

            Elsa took the gift, offering the present she had in return, to which Hans seemed surprised to be receiving. “This is for you,” she explained. Both took the proffered gifts and held them as if neither knew what to do with them. It was the Queen who managed to have the presence of mind to say, “You go first.”

            Hans untied the ribbon that held his box closed, taking the lid off and unfolding the cloth wrapping that hid and protected the gift. A slow smile creased his face, gentle and sort-of touched looking. He held up the top of a tooled leather bridle for his horse, dark in color with a golden trim, patterned carefully and expertly with curls. Elsa was surprised that she felt relieved that he appeared to like it, relieved and nervous. “There’s… well, the matching saddle is in the stables, Prince Hans. I hope you can make use of them with Sitron.” She didn’t tell him that the saddle and bridle had belonged to her father. It felt strange.

            “Thank you, Your Grace,” he replied, sounding so sincere to Elsa that she smiled and replied, “You’re welcome.”

            A moment passed before she started to untie the ribbons of her gift. Had Anna not appeared and put a gift into her hands, she would have opened it right away. The younger of the two started in on how her sister just _had_ to open her present first, because she was her sister and she just _had_ to. Elsa looked down at the present long enough to unwrap it, and looked up to see Hans’ sympathetic face. He waved her off and turned, disappearing in the gift-giving throng.

            Elsa unwrapped Anna’s gift, the box giving way to a surprise—a doll that was the spitting image of herself, but sewn into its arms was a green swaddled baby figure, obviously meant to diffuse the issue between them. Elsa’s eyes welled up, a lump developing in her throat, “But… we only… this morning…”

            “I know. I had something else, and you’ll get that, too, but…” Anna reached out and put one hand on Elsa’s holding the doll, “You don’t have to be afraid. This baby—my child—is going to be my life soon, and I can’t wait, but… I don’t ever want distance between us, Elsa. Put your faith in me to know what you can handle, and we won’t let each other down.”

            At some point Elsa had gone from tearing up to actually crying, which made Anna start to cry, too, and despite her concerns about Anna’s pregnancy and her proximity, the Queen hugged her sister, the presents in her hand less important than maintaining their bond and all but forgotten. If she had time to pick apart her emotions, Elsa would be happy to be loved so much, but unhappy with herself for letting fear interfere with her life again. The gift exchange wasn’t over, however, and she received and opened presents from everyone present. Hans’ present set with Anna’s, unopened for the time being. A feast was served, the leftovers of which were left out for whatever unexpected visitors might pop in overnight—traditionally for… trolls. Kristoff laughed at first, the humor wearing off when he realized he’d never seen a troll leave for “late night snacks” on the Yuletide Eve.

            The party seemed to last well into the night, but eventually everyone retired to their beds, likely to sleep in the next morning. Elsa left Anna and Kristoff at their room and continued on to hers’ finding that all her presents had been delivered to her room before Kai or Gerda went to bed. She looked over the clothes that she would probably never wear, smiled at the doll Anna had given her, and then saw the corner of the blue box that held Hans’ gift. Appraisingly, she picked up the box. It was weighty, and something shifted inside as she rattled it slightly. Curiosity piqued again, Elsa sat down and untied the ribbon as the box sat on her lap, setting the lid aside and finding a set of combs inside. They were mostly silver, some with handles inlayed with white porcelain, lapis lazuli, aquamarine, and a couple with dark sapphires winking in the light of her candle. The beauty of the hair combs caught her breath for the moment. Though beautiful, Elsa could see too that they were not new, and as she picked the combs out and set them down on her lap, she came to a note at the bottom. It read very simply, “ _These belonged to my mother and her mother._ ”

            The next morning, Yuletide, Elsa sat at her vanity table coiling her hair with the aid of the silver combs, their usefulness undeniable. As a last touch, she secured a small silver comb, one with a sapphire between two aquamarines ornamenting it, in her braided chignon. Before leaving her table, she almost took it out, feeling as though if she wore the comb she would show some sort of favoritism—a favoritism that she felt for the comb—that would be hard to explain. Her eyes went to the piles of presents she had left on the sofa and wondered if she could handle wearing “normal” clothing again, even if it was only for a day. It would be rude not to, wouldn’t it, she asked herself.

            When Queen Elsa left her room, she was dressed entirely in cloth made of material and not her ice cloth, wearing leather boots and a blue cape similar to the one she had let go of on the North Mountain. Had it not been for the cape, she might have escaped notice, mistaken for a lovely new maid or foreign dignitary. As it was, three of her staff did double-takes and then raved about how different it was to see her in plain clothes again—all nice things—just on the way to the library office.

            Inside the office, she prepared to face a good day in good humor, imagining that few could find things to complain about on Yule. She was partly correct, in that what complaints came across her desk had nothing to do with the holiday. They were, in fact, thinly veiled angry letters from various countries whom sons’, princes’, and kings’ hands she had turned down in the last four years since her parents’ deaths. The general consensus of each was that further refusals to take a husband would be considered as insults, heinous enough to warrant war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... that took a whole lot longer than I expected. And its not just because its longer... I'm physically moving, and I have to be pretty involved with that, on top of which I had to pick up a good amount of hours at work. Not really excuses, just... explanations.  
> This story will be finished... at some point. I know the end game, I just have to get there somehow between work, life, and... excuses.  
> On a smaller note, I watch Once Upon a Time, and.................  
> If I had a production team, millions of dollars, and a tv deal, my fanfiction would end up on tv too! :D  
> It is sort of affecting me, though, to be able to see the live-action characters. I do a lot of flailing during the commercials. (not sure if you needed to know any of this, but I JUST watched it--Sunday night here, and so its on my brain.)  
> Thank you for reading, ESPECIALLY if you made it to the end without wanting to bean me. >.> Hope the wait was worth it. :)


	7. Torture

Late on the morning of Yule, Kristoff woke to find that Anna, despite having stayed up late in the night, was already bustling about their room, busy and determined. Groggy still from sleep, he scrubbed his hand across his face and asked in a humored tone, “What are you doing, Feisty-pants?”

            Bad idea.

            Anna stopped, and in her hands were rags. Her copper hair had been piled on top of her head haphazardly. But the thing that let Kristoff really know he shouldn’t have asked that question was the look in her blue eyes; they were half-crazed, stranger’s eyes in his wife’s face, bright but wild with a strange gleam. “Cleaning,” was the short reply.

            In true Anna fashion, the explanation was much longer and more convoluted. It started, “I woke up this morning and I just had this feeling… I remember my mother having a lot of maids, not because she needed them to attend to her, but because she had a habit of making messes—,” and ended several minutes later with: “… And all the dust, Kristoff! This place was closed off for almost fifteen years! I started with the furniture—which, just let me tell you is _filthy_ —and I sent the drapes off to be cleaned except for the ones in our room, and I just keep thinking that the walls—the _walls_ , Kristoff—they haven’t been cleaned— _ever_! So, we have to clean them, wash them. Please, get out of bed and help me wash the walls.”

            Kristoff had never, ever been so happy to be summoned for a service in the chapel as he was an hour later. Anna seemed hell-bent on scrubbing every nook and cranny in their room, which would take much longer than they had been allowed to get dressed and presentable for the service. A couple of maids worked on Anna’s hair, though she was entirely focused on how the walls would have to be finished when the service was over—“Really? Can’t we skip this one? I know it's Yule, but… this can’t wait,”—while they did their job and dressed her to look normal. It took coaxing to get her out of the room and away from the mess—truthfully, the walls were pretty dirty—and down to the chapel, yet somehow, Kristoff and Anna were in the front pew on time just as the service started.

            His wife in no mood to be much company, Kristoff took stock of who else was around him. Elsa was on the other side of Anna, wearing real cloth clothes—the kind that people made with thread and needle, not fashioned for themselves from ice—which was astounding in itself, but paid no attention to his play to capture hers. He didn’t even bother looking at Kai and Gerda, who made up the rest of their pew, and saw many familiar faces from the castle amongst the people he assumed were their families. He turned his head as far as his neck allowed and tried to find anyone else. Egon and Linnéa were in the next pew behind them, seemingly cuddled, her head on his shoulder. At first, Kristoff assumed that Hans was beside them, just further out of view, but after turning and looking from the other side, he saw no sign of the prince. Really? Hans got out of the service? What did he do, and could Kristoff do it too?

            Facing the front again, Kristoff tried not to look as bored as he felt. The Trolls weren’t exactly Christian—one of the reasons that he hadn’t had a real Yule until last year—and so most of the stuff that the man in the robes said went in one ear and out of the other. He had participated in the marriage ceremony, but it had seemed so generic that the Fjordsman thought nothing of it besides what he vowed to do for Anna. He didn’t have much of an opinion on the whole religion-thing, aside from what did it matter for him right now? He’d figure it out when he was old and about to die.

            When the whole thing was over, Kristoff quickly told Anna that he was going to see Sven and that he’d be back up to clean later. He didn’t stick around to find out what her response was to that. In his haste to be the first out the door he ran into Hans. At least he knew that the Prince hadn’t escaped the torture either. A quick glance at his still thin face, and the memory of the lack of fingernails, and Kristoff left before he could think anything else that would make him feel bad for the man.

* * *

 

            Obvious agitation is hard to ignore, except when worrying over threats of war. Queen Elsa hadn’t paid attention to Anna until after Kristoff had left, when her sister poked a boney finger into her upper arm, pushing with just enough pressure to feel like the finger pushed muscle in between the bones. “Ouch,” the Queen said, grabbing her arm and looking at Anna in injured indignance.

            “If you’d have listened to me, I wouldn’t have had to do that,” Anna said, crossing her arms over the bump in her stomach, “I said: ‘I like your clothes,’ and then I said, ‘Are you listening to me?’ and when you hadn’t heard either one, I asked if the sky was a pretty shade of green today, or if the moon was getting close to noon or not.”

            “Oh,” Elsa said, rubbing her arm, “Sorry. I have something on my mind.”

            “So do I, but you don’t see me spacing out when somebody talks to me,” Anna said with a smile—Elsa was starting to realize that her sister was acting weird—and plowed on into how the walls in the entire castle needed to be scrubbed before she gave birth—actually, they better do it now, because even though the midwife said she was still three months away from having the baby, she just couldn’t imagine her stomach getting much bigger, and that seemed like something that was wrong, but to get back to her point, she just really thought that the walls were too dirty and dusty and filthy to have a baby live encased in, and she should know—she had spent all the time Elsa had been in her room roaming the castle—she had been through every door there was to the place, which brought her to the doors and how some of them closed too roughly and some of them didn’t close at all and that some of them had better be sanded down, and…, and…

            Elsa couldn’t handle it. She got up, telling Anna that maybe she’d better talk to Kai and Gerda—both of whom had hoped to escape notice—about the cleaning, and that she had more pressing matters to attend to. Anna called after her, “More pressing than the general filthiness of the castle, in which we all wallow like pigs?”

            Just as soon as that baby was born, Elsa was hoping that Anna would go back to being normal. Or that this too would pass. Soon.

            Elsa didn’t want to go back to the letters, so instead of that, she went for a walk to inspect all the “filthiness” of the castle. She didn’t see what Anna saw, but she imagined that Anna saw everything, and to her eye, everything was wrong. Invariably, she was driven to thinking about how, if she did as the letters bid and chose a husband, she would perhaps be pregnant, too, and maybe just as crazy as her sister. But then again, if she chose a husband, there was no telling if he would survive the first kiss, much less conception. Kissing had all the appeal of putting her lips to a viper’s fangs. She didn’t think anyone would survive it—a true kiss of death, and then where would she be? Then again, maybe she should just agree to marry someone, and when they died of frostbite or something else ice-related, maybe then all of the letters would stop. Who would want to send their sons off to die?

            Maybe it _was_ filthy in the castle, because suddenly, Elsa couldn’t breathe inside; the air was too stuffy and raked her throat and nose as she took the stale air into her lungs and pushed it back out. She found the first door with a balcony and nearly froze the door trying to get it open. That was one of those reasons why she didn’t think a physical relationship was possible with a man and her. Just a little thing like not being able to breathe and she’d freeze important parts of him, like his heart, or lungs. Overcome with the fear of hurting someone and the helplessness she’d always felt in conjunction with fear, and the general aggravation of being threatened for not wanting to get married, Elsa put her hands on the railing of the balcony and froze the entirety of the platform on which she was standing. It was a sharp, clear freeze, like the ice she had accidentally barricaded herself behind when Anna had taken her glove on the night of her coronation. It grew up the side of the castle and made a little prison for her to stand in, the spikes joining at the ninety-degree where they met in startlingly regular patterns. For just a minute, she couldn’t think about the lack of control she had on her powers but reveled in their release, which she so often checked with her willpower.

            It felt good—felt as good as building the castle had felt; felt as good as wearing her signature dress—so much better than wearing stuffy cloth clothes. It felt like catching the light in a crystal—like _she_ was the crystal and _she_ was throwing the light. It didn’t tingle with heat but with energy, and she let it out of her body and onto surfaces where it grew its own crystals and threw its own light.

             In her brief revelry, Elsa didn't give pause to look around and make sure no one saw her lapse. Had she looked into the door, she might have seen the figure that obtusely lurked in the shadows and would have been prepared for the startling arrival of the owner of the shadow.

            "Oh, Elsa!" Olaf cooed, his snowy feet rubbing across the wooden floor of the balcony, "It's so beautiful. Like a really bright room made out of windows! We could bring some chairs out here and sit and just relax, because it's so cool, but also in the sun. I like it." Elsa had put a hand to her breast, so surprised she was, and only then caught up to what the snowman was saying.  

             "I didn't mean to do this," she said, not apologizing, but as though she didn't understand why he thought it was something special. "I just wanted fresh air," the Queen tried to explain, but not wanting to own up to losing control. Olaf took it to mean something different. "Some fresh air in a nice cool area; I understand. I like it. Hey! I have an idea! Why don't you make rooms to live in out of ice for the summer? You could have a little castle attached to this one, just like the one on the mountain?"

             She started to wave the idea off, an old knee-jerk reaction, born from the mantra "Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show," that her father had instilled in her, but as she opened her mouth to dismiss it, she thought it through. If she did raise her own castle in the bay, adjacent and connected to her family castle, she would, perhaps, finally have an outlet for her powers. She would have to work on it every day—the coming heat would certainly melt a few layers off of the ice, and if she put support for it in the water, the water would melt it almost as fast—so she could consider it dangerous for anyone to enter besides herself and warn others accordingly. It would provide a place for her to be alone with her thoughts, maybe a place to hide from Anna’s new intensity. She paused, mouth open and index finger raised, and then rerouted: “I think I would like that, Olaf.”  

             “Well, it was your idea, so I’m glad,” Olaf said, giggling, then looking at the ice on the balcony one more time before taking his personal flurry and himself back inside. He looked out at Elsa and said, “You look nice today, but I like your dresses better.” His snowy little feet shuffled off down the hall, no doubt on his way to see Sven. Elsa stayed on the balcony until she had calmed down as much as she could, squared her shoulders, and left it to convene a council to decide what to do about the suitors.

* * *

             Arendelle, as a modern nation, could not boast of a large military. Their navy was only of the average size, and only capable of above average maritime offence. They had the royal guard, and a small army, but overall, a wartime nation they were not. The public found it more lucrative to be in the trade game, sailors making more on a cargo ship than they would in the service of the crown, and of-age men making a greater living as shop owners or farmers or scholars. These things were glaringly obvious to everyone in Arendelle when it leaked from the castle that the Queen was to choose a husband or face war.

             The public had two minds about that. One, more than half, expected their Queen to start looking for a husband among those sent by their own nations, and assumed that within the year, they would have a king. Two, less than half, assumed that Queen Elsa could refuse the suitors altogether and simply fight a war all on her own. Arendelle would be safe from all assaults with a monarch able to harness the harshness of winter, having lived through her unintentional summertime blizzard almost two years before.

             Egon was part of those that thought Elsa would fight—and win—all on her own. That was, until she made her decision, five days after Yule. Linnéa had been cleaning non-stop at the behest of Anna, as had the rest of the staff since the holiday, and had only just dropped down beside him on their bed before being disturbed by another maid passing by. That maid had knocked and proclaimed through the door, “The Queen’s made her decision! She’s going to announce it in the throne room!”

             The veteran looked at his wife, who made a face like a child against the mattress, fists curling tightly. He rubbed at her back for a moment before getting off the bed and waiting for her. Still pouting, she rolled to her feet again and let him tuck her under his arm, no words needed. They left the room, steadily making their way up to where a crowd had already gathered. Egon led them through the throng to stand beside Kristoff and Anna in the front. He looked around out of habit for Hans, didn’t see him, and picked up on the conversation already going on between Kristoff and Linnéa: “—do you think she’ll actually go with suitors?”

             “Maybe,” Kristoff said, and to Egon’s ears it sounded like he thought it would be more likely for the moon to turn face—turn face to an actual face—and laugh at them, “She doesn’t have to accept threats. I’ve lived through one of her storms, just barely. No way that anyone could survive one if she meant to attack them.” Egon blinked, staying quiet and keeping his thoughts to himself—Kristoff may have trusted his sister-in-law implicitly, but the veteran couldn’t help the chill that stole over him at the thought that there was no guarantee that the Queen wouldn’t snap and attack Arendelle. Kristoff said it himself: no survivors.

             Linnéa twisted her lips saying, “Could she just put up a big wall out in the ocean? A blockade would keep them out indefinitely, and maybe if they saw it, they’d be so afraid of her powers that no one would want a war against her.” Kristoff paused to give it some thought, and Egon took the opportunity to jump in. “A blockade would keep them out, aye. But it would also keep Arendelle in. Arendelle may have food and resources to stay alive for years, but its economy would die, its people would be out of work, and most importantly, those conditions would drive its people to unrest. A blockade would be a temporary answer to a problem that is more long-standing.”

             Kristoff, Anna, and Linnéa all looked to the veteran like his response was a surprise. Gruff and slightly affronted by their surprise, Egon asked, “I used to be a soldier, or had you forgotten? Any nincompoop could guess the same, anyway, once they thought it through. I doubt the Queen will choose a blockade, is all I was meaning.” They slowly looked away, Anna beginning to whisper something to Kristoff, who took on a look of a man wishing he were somewhere else. Linnéa held onto Egon’s arm like it was the only thing supporting her, her head resting on his shoulder. He thought more about blockades, storms, and ice-powers while he stood still, waiting for the Queen to make her announcement.

* * *

             Upon hearing the rumors of war, the anxiety and paranoia plaguing Hans doubled and tripled. He locked the door of his room and refused to come out for anything short of needing to relieve himself. He lost his appetite, sat on his bed in his room with his lamp burning, and was generally unmotivated to leave his room at all. It only lasted a few days, but it had been a few days of immobile torment.

             His logic? His reasoning that took him down the intrusive rabbit hole? Queen Elsa _would_ choose war over having to take suitors, thereby making him exponentially more likely to be kidnapped by his brothers. War made for chaos, at least where there was no blockade and little security at the docks. It would be easy for one of his brother’s men to waylay him, disguise him—even a poor disguise would do—, and stuff him on a ship back to the Southern Isles. He would be stolen back before the first shots of war were ever fired. If he granted no one entry to his room and only made trips out to the privy, Hans could cut down on the number of people with access to his person to just his person.

             The maid, announcing that Queen Elsa would declare her decision in the throne room, loudly speaking through Egon and Linnéa’s door, was the end of Hans’ hiding in his room. He was out of his door before Egon and Linnéa had made it off of their bed, and speeding along the halls with only one purpose: talk to the Queen. He jumped over a bunch in the carpet, rather than trip on it, and wove past another maid, and another, until he was skidding into the throne room, eyes scanning for the Queen, not finding her, and continuing, having not disturbed even one of the arriving audience. He didn’t have to think about where he was going. Taking the stairs two at a time, he arrived in the hall that branched off into the way to the Queen’s apartments. From there, he couldn’t seem to get to the double doors at end fast enough, barely noticing that there were guards standing on either side. When he showed no signs of slowing down, they crossed their spears before the door, both commanding him to stop. Hans slammed into the spears, his momentum knocking them into the doors, which opened, and knocked them apart, depositing him to the ground inside of Elsa’s office. It also knocked the breath from his lungs, and he lay panting on the floor while the guards rushed in, bent on removing him.

             The Queen stopped them, Hans looking up in time to see her quit her bedroom. She was confused, but it barely registered in his panicked mind. He jerked at the guards’ hold on his arms, surprising them into release with his vigor. Still desperate, Hans circled around the furniture to reach out for Elsa. She drew back too quickly, and it took a full second for him to understand why—were he to seize her, he needn’t fear the guards; Elsa could freeze him if she was not in control of herself. Without someone to cling to, however, whatever force had driven him to the Queen’s rooms put him on his knees. A day or so without food, plus the run, made him light-headed. It was hard to start speaking for a moment, but once he did begin, it was hard to stop.  

             “Queen Elsa, please,” Hans gulped, “Please, do not go to war—,”

             She waved the guards to turn around and go stand outside, which took them a moment to comply with, all the while Hans still speaking in frenzied, halting tones. “Do not go to war. Please. My brothers. They will use it. They’d use any excuse. But war: they’ll have me before the first body goes cold. I’ll be back on a ship. They’ll have me in prison again. Please, please, please don’t go to war—,” He would have continued, but when the doors were closed, the Queen, to his surprise, put a hand on his shoulder and gripped it hard. That contact only lasted a second, making him flinch, and stop speaking.

             Her blue eyes were on him, fair, feathery brows pulling down with emotion that Hans couldn’t name in that moment. She put a hand out to him, to lift him from the floor, which he took, and another offering him a chair, which he also took. His heart kept hammering in his chest, and words died unsaid at the back of his throat. The Queen sat across from him, composing herself calmly and regally. His mouth opened and closed, breath trying to move as it should and getting caught somewhere between his nose and windpipe.

             “I have no plans to go to war, Prince Hans,” she said, calmly. He blinked, surprised, and then he was overcome with relief so pure and potent that the heat in his face leaked out as tears. It was shameful to be weeping so completely, in anyone’s company, but doubly so in front of the Queen, so his hands found their way to his face, fisted knuckles pressed to his forehead, and palms pressed against his eyes. He bent at his middle, feeling like a child, but continued his sobs uninterrupted for a moment longer, or a few moments longer. He wasn’t sure when she put her hand on his knee, but when he realized it was there, Hans leaned back, weeping stopping for a full moment while he took stock of Elsa’s state. She was exactly as she had been, her expression the same as it had been, except that her hand was on his knee. The Queen took his cessation of weeping as an opportunity to continue.

             “You should know that it wasn’t your pleading with me that keeps Arendelle from war. I would try to keep you safe, as per my agreement with Prince Dorian, but I would not make decisions about my country just to keep you from your other brothers.” Hans swallowed hard, and wiped the remaining tears from his eyes, nodding at her words. They were understandable, but they didn’t give him as much relief as her first few did. The Queen continued, “I am going to accept suitors. They come from all over, and my letters to them have already been sent out. I did receive a letter from one of your brothers, Dagny, but I forwarded it to Dorian with my own letter that I would not take a suitor from the Southern Isles under any circumstances.”

             Dagny. His ninth brother, chronologically. Thoughts of him were unremittingly associated to cramped places, hot without respite, maddeningly unable to sit or lay down. Hans almost missed the Queen’s question: “Do you want something to drink?” It was his surprise, he thought, or a lingering sense of it, that muddled his brain to the point of asking, “What?”

             “You sound like you haven’t had anything to drink for hours. You look like you haven’t bathed—you smell like it as well—for days. You look horrible,” the last bit was asked with a twinge of humor, and he tried straightening himself subtly, unaware of her slight goading, “I’m sure my guards couldn’t recognize you, so out of sorts… Honestly, Prince Hans, tell me: is all of this because you were worried that I would choose war over an uncomfortable marriage?” He didn’t have an answer, and Elsa sighed, shaking her head, “You could have asked me when you heard. Anyone could have asked me. Instead, I have to go and tell my people that, yes, I will try to marry, and, no, I wouldn’t send their husbands, fathers, and sons to die rather than the other… It would have saved you some grief, I imagine. You should take care of yourself, Hans. It’s a way to beat your brothers.”

             The Queen stood, the place where her hand had been on his knee oddly cold—unlike what he would expect from someone else’s hand—and made her way over to her doors. She paused, looked back at him, her blue dress catching some of the strengthening winter sun rays, glittering brilliantly, and said, “I’ll leave those guards outside if you’d like to use my washroom. I can send Linnéa to help and a meal up if you’d like. Oh, and there’s a pitcher of water on the desk.” He didn’t realize that she was really waiting for an answer until she had stood at the door for more than a minute. “Yes,” he replied, voice still rusty, “Please, Your Grace.”

             She nodded, and then she was gone.

* * *

 

             Linnéa, by virtue of having had multiple sexual partners in her thirty-odd years, knew the difference between a big prick and a little one. The first of the year was well on its way of becoming the end of January, and several of Queen Elsa’s suitors had arrived in Arendelle as early as the fifteenth of the month. The staff of the castle had never been so busy, even with Anna and Kristoff’s wedding, and even with Anna’s newfound love of a sterile environment.  Sometimes, she hid in any closet she could find, just for a quarter-hour alone, resting. Having to clean after, feed, launder clothes, and run messages of four princes, two dukes, and a rather large foreign dignitary was like cleaning after nine pompous pigs.  

             So, she made up her own little game about them, letting in two other maids, who let in two more, until the whole staff was in on the joke. She’d wager the size of their… bits. Half of it was attitude—every prince, duke, dignitary, and man, in general, seemed to have an attitude that corresponded to their manliness—and the other half was intense staring. Her game had made for quite the betting pool among maids and butlers. The fun only ended when they reached the end of the suitors. But another had arrived over the weekend, and the betting had reached a ridiculousness that surprised even Linnéa.

             He, Sokollu, was a fine young man, older than the Queen by five years, well in his prime. He came from the east, over the mountains, _from a place where dark tales were told and the history was as meshed with legend as it was_ —Linnéa couldn’t make out the rest, but she was sure it was “interesting.” He was not a prince, but a governor from Bosnia, expected to become a Grand Vizier sometime in the future—this was all well and good, but Linnéa barely understood any of it—and sent on behalf of the Ottoman Empire. They had high hopes for Sokollu, she assumed, and little hopes for themselves, she gathered by the whispers of the other gentiles. Oh, and was he handsome! Queen Elsa couldn’t find a better man, so far, in terms of looks. He had dark brown hair thick and glossy that fell smartly on his ears in loose waves; he wore no beard, just a thin, trimmed mustache. His voice was deep, with an accented cadence that sounded musical. Sokollu’s most attractive feature, she had noticed, were his eyes, hazel with thick, dark eyelashes, set well in an open face. He wore strange clothes, their drawback being either a skirt of a coat or loose pants. She couldn’t make a good bet on how big his goods were, based on that alone.

             So, Linnéa had to take other factors into consideration. The governor was not as tall as Hans, and not as wide across the shoulders as Kristoff, and not as barrel-chested as her husband. He had hands that were proportionate, and feet that were respectably big. His demeanor was subdued, but he seemed charismatic enough when the time called for it. He wasn’t as flirtatious with the maids as some of the other suitors. Then again, even being handsome, some of the maids thumbed their figurative noses at him on grounds that he wasn’t Christian. Linnéa had no such disillusions, and she didn’t particularly care for those maids either. At any rate, the last point didn’t really affect the size of his privates.

             Coming to a conclusion, at last, she spread it around that the governor Sokollu was an average man, not too big, not too small. The betting began immediately, and every attempt was made to “chance” upon what it really was. The largest bet was an entire week’s pay that Linnéa was under-guessing by a couple of inches. Her own bet was on that she was right, right down to the size. And if she wasn’t right, it wasn’t the biggest bet ever made. On the governor’s third day there, one of the involved butlers passed it along that Egon’s wife was right on all accounts. She gave part of the week’s pay back to the gambler, feeling bad that they’d lost so much. Other than that, Linnéa was quite happy with her game.  

             It distracted them all from the guests they housed.  

             She had been so busy that she hardly looked for Hans, hardly had any energy at night except to crawl into bed with Egon, and hardly saw the Queen or the Princess or Kristoff. Elsa had her own issues keeping her busy, and Anna had enough issues to keep everyone busy. Egon stayed busy keeping an eye on the suitors, and, he told her, Elsa had asked him to keep a close but invisible watch on Prince Hans.

             The day the Queen had sent Linnéa up to her rooms to help Hans bathe in her washroom was the last day she had had any sort of conversation with him. She had no idea what to expect when the Queen sent her up, aside from that Hans would be up there.

             He stood beside the large cast-iron tub when she peeked her head into the washroom. It was hard to tell the expression on his face, where his back was to the window. She greeted him quietly, and he responded on the same level, turning away from her completely. She’d drawn the water and heated it, then helped him undress—he wasn’t exactly steady on his feet and smelt terrible—all without another exchange of words. Using Elsa’s soaps and oils, she cleaned Hans’ hair, which had grown further down his back in the six months in Arendelle. Linnéa offered to trim it and pleat it, but the Prince declined both.

             It had been in her mind to respect his privacy, so she tried very hard not to look at him while he washed, or when he stepped out, draining the tub of water. Once in a dressing gown, he let her shave his stubbly cheeks, reminding her rather painfully of the trip to Arendelle on the ship and the time when she felt comfortable weeping for him. Now, they barely had five words for each other. So, when the need hit her to ask what was on her mind, it slipped out unfettered.

             “Can’t it be like it was before, Hans?”

             He was surprised, slightly, by the question, taking a moment before asking, “’Like it was before’ when, Linnéa?”

             “’Before’ I opened my mouth that one time. We don’t have to be family. I’d settle for a regular conversation. I… I don’t want you to be alone. It wears on you,” Linnéa answered. He didn’t look at her while she was speaking, and she thought he might have shut her out entirely, but he finally spoke, just as she had thought to get up and finish straightening up the room. “Thank you…” he said, in a calm, quiet voice, “For caring.”

             From him, it had seemed like a yes, but, as the weeks wore on, Linnéa realized they were no closer than before the bath.

* * *

             Who knew that foreign dignitaries and governors and princes could bring so much _filth_ with them? The castle was in a constant state of cleaning, and there always seemed to be more dirt, in places high and low. Everywhere. On everything. She’d lay awake at night, and Kristoff would be sleeping like his troll family—rocks, all of them—and she’d be thinking about the baby yet to be born, and how the baby couldn’t live in the toxicity that those suitors were leaving everywhere, and about the blankets that could smother it or keep it warm, and the tiny little draft she felt coming through a window in their room, and how her husband would probably sleep through everything from a crying baby to a giant whale swallowing the whole of the kingdom.

             It was maddening inside of her brain. On the one hand, she’d never been so aware of how much she talked, or how much she asked of people, or that she was so big now, and on the other hand, she’d never been more happy, more connected with people, or more ready for the next part of her life. Her hands would rove over her stomach, particularly when the occupant inside was moving around, and she would envision holding the child. What would it be? A little boy? Her father would have loved a grandson. She knew that he had loved his daughters, but there was a part of her that always recognized that he wished Elsa were a boy. Or that she was. What about a little girl? Would Kristoff even know what to do with a little girl? Of course. He’d probably take her mountain climbing and put her on Sven and parade her around like the princess of the Trolls—she’d be their Queen, Anna just knew it—and she’d love ice just as much as her father. Either would be okay. Anna thought she’d love it even if it had two heads and a body like Olaf. Well, maybe she’d wonder who she’d mortally offended to have a child born like that. If it was healthy, that was the best thing she could ask for.

             She rose from the bed at the crack of dawn and was dressed while the sun was still lazily climbing the horizon. The baby was awake, moving around. What must it be like, living in water? Growing, hearing—she assumed that the baby could hear—and not having to take a breath. She sat in a chair in the view of the bay and the rising sun and wished that her mother were still alive. Was it any different to carry Elsa than Anna? Had her mother been abnormally cold? When had Elsa’s powers first appeared? Was she a little baby, freezing her toys and rattles or did it start when she could walk? How did they keep her powers from the nannies? Or the maids? Anyone who was around when Elsa’s powers manifested when she was a child?

             Anna put her hand to her chest, and the other to her stomach. Would being frozen—and it was on her mind from the start—affect the child growing within her? Would they be like Elsa? Their mother hadn’t—to either of their knowledge—been frozen, before or after Elsa was born. Perhaps it was time to go to Pabbie, because perhaps now the old troll would know whether or not the baby was destined to have that magic that had been born to her sister.  

             Kristoff, dressed in his nightshirt, set a warm hand on her shoulder. He could tell that she was pensive, thinking things over, things other than cleaning.

             “We’re going somewhere today, aren’t we?” he asked.

             She nodded, the hand on her chest rising up to lay on his. “I want to go see your family. I want to know if they know anything.”

             Hours later, after the sun had risen into a blue sky, Kristoff and Anna left the castle, both in the sled she had given to Kristoff after his was broken. The snow on their path had yet to melt completely, so as Sven pulled the couple along at a decent pace, there was still a sense of winter clinging to the trees and ground. Kristoff kept the reins in one hand, the other arm keeping his wife close to him. Having a blue sky against the melting snow made the pines stand out sharply, and the moving air made her nose start to run. Just one sniffle caught Kristoff’s attention, and he acted like she had caught the plague. “I’m fine,” she assured him but took the scarf he insisted on offering, covering the lower half of her face.  

             Around noon, Kristoff stopped the sled and unharnessed Sven, and the three of them walked the last rocky path to the troll’s village within the valley. As usual, Kristoff’s adopted family was over the moon to see him and Anna and Sven. Bulda immediately asked Anna all sorts of questions about her pregnancy, to the point that Kristoff had to remind his adoptive mother that there were others present. Pabbie, after his family nearly broke into another musical number, got down to business.

             “What brought you to us today?” They had all sat down, the humans and reindeer surrounded by the trolls. Pabbie had both of Anna’s hands in his, soft despite being made of stone. He was always perceptive.

             “We want to know about the baby,” Anna responded, followed by Kristoff, who added, “If it’s going to be like Elsa. Because of Anna being frozen.”

             Pabbie drew a deep breath, his features drawing together over his large nose. “The child is not yet born… their life is too tied to Anna’s to tell.” He said it hesitantly, and it seemed to be enough explanation for her husband, but Anna felt like Pabbie was holding back.

             “Then look at my future. Will I be dealing with a baby that has ice powers? If we’re that linked, it must be obvious what will happen when I have the baby. Please, Pabbie. I want—no, I need to know.”

             He was quiet for a long moment, and Anna could feel the questions piling up at the back of her throat, held in by sheer willpower alone. Because the baby could be like Elsa, and while that might be kind of exciting to have a baby who was like her sister, she could see herself having just as many problems as her parents did with her sister—though her sister would know how to reach the child and teach it, unlike her parents, who had no earthly idea and no one to ask—and Kristoff being both in awe of their child’s abilities and maybe too careless with them which could spell disaster and—

             “This child will not be like Elsa,” Pabbie said, and Anna heard Kristoff breathe a sigh of relief, though the shaman troll continued, “But you have the potential to have one like her, Anna. Just like Elsa has the potential to have perfectly normal children. The possibility is there, but it is not overwhelmingly likely.”

             There was little else to be said on the matter, though both Anna and Kristoff asked if the child would be healthy. With a confirmation and some more family time, they left on the sled and returned to the castle before the sun was fully set.

             Naturally, the sled had to be cleaned to perfection and they had to change clothes in the first hallway in the castle and then that whole hallway had to be changed and Kristoff had to bathe because really there was no way she was getting into bed with him if he didn’t since he was in the stables talking to Sven for what felt like an hour and all that time she was just up in their room on their and she hoped that he didn’t do that when the baby was here because it needed its father just as much as its mother and … and…

* * *

             The best defense is a good offense.

             Though it was not combat that she was undertaking, Queen Elsa felt as though she were living under that adage on the daily. She dined, chatted, and maneuvered that way. It was what she had expected when she decided to accept the suitors to her court. And she had perfectly good reason; she had to determine, quickly, if there were any suitors not solely interested in conquering Arendelle with a political marriage. Arendelle had to remain its own sovereign nation.  

             Some suitors were so annoyingly transparent that they left after only a brief audience with the Queen of Arendelle. Weeding those out had been easy, but then she was left with the more dubiously natured men, who all knew just enough to seem like the affairs of Arendelle were more than pointless trivialities to them. Of those less transparent suitors, Elsa found that she could separate them between those who treated her with polite courtesy and those who treated her like someone with a brain between her ears. Those suitors in the second group were infinitely more welcome than the first, but at the same time, those second groupers were frustratingly less easy to read. Elsa kept the first group in Arendelle for an extra week, feeling like they were the last barrier between her and a nest of vipers.  

             As the last of the second group of suitors were packed away on their ships, distance making them small dots that had rounded the harbor and were disappearing off into the horizon, Elsa was preparing a dinner with her few remaining suitors. In the early afternoon, she was beset in her office with letters that had been delivered to her from her people, all seemingly with opinions on who they thought she should choose. Of course, the servants would have spoken to their families on their opinions of her suitors. The first few letters that the Queen opened were a surprise to read over; her subjects had opinions on men they had never met before? The castle was overrun with opinions, it seemed. As humorous as the letters appeared at times, the more she read them, the more she felt a sort of strangling pressure build in her chest. This was absolutely inescapable. One of these suitors would be her husband, and gain a hand in all the matters of Arendelle as a state. A dark cloud at the back of her mind cast a shadow on them all—not one of the suitors cared anything for her beautiful country, or her kind-hearted people, or least of all her. They saw Arendelle as a venue for economics, a military foothold, or a land of natural resources they could exploit.

             Elsa tossed the letters on her desk, unwilling to read another line from anyone on who she should marry. The room was cold; she could see her breath in the air. Would she ever get a handle on her powers and emotions and the connection between the two? Love will thaw, she reminded herself, and tried to concentrate on the love in her life, but even that was tainted in some anxiety with the coming delivery of her sister’s child. The Queen decided a walk might better serve her, and left her rooms in a rustling of gauze-like blue skirts.  

             Sometime later, as she looked over the gardens from a balcony, the Queen was startled out of an absent-minded silence by a tap against the glass of the open door behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see one of her suitors.  

             “Governor Sokollu,” Elsa greeted him, turning back to face the gardens and to hide her expression. She could have guessed that with the herd thinning, the suitors would become bolder, but when she had set out for her walk, she hadn’t considered that she would run into one of them.  

             “May I join you, your Majesty?” asked the governor, accent making the words seem more musical than she was used to. She stayed silent for a moment before turning to face him, bare hands coming to rest together behind her back, fingers interlaced and alternatively squeezing the other fingers nervously. Eying the governor’s clothes—thick for the still-cold air—the Queen responded, “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to walk. I stood still for a moment too long, I think.”

             He acquiesced with a nod of his head, allowing her space to pass him in the doorway and falling into step with her as she went. “I was under the impression that your Majesty was immune to the cold. I see I shouldn’t have assumed anyone was immune to this climate,” Sokollu said, deep voice soft to keep from echoing in the halls. The cold, he thought, was why she wanted to move? It almost made her laugh, but she managed to smile demurely and preserve her aloofness. Appearances and counter-movements; this was politics as an unmarried queen could play them.  

             Elsa parried his move, “I was under the impression that Bosnia was similarly cold; I would have thought you were used to this weather.”

             “Your Majesty is not wrong,” he said, a slow, gentle smile revealing even white teeth and lightening his eyes, “However, most of us in Bosnia would not brave the cold without a thick coat.”

             She followed the brief flickering of his eyes to her person and felt the need to follow. While not having taken to wearing anything risqué, Elsa wasn’t truly dressed for the lingering winter. She had taken inspiration from the shirts sailors wore—high, wide, and plain-necked—and let the rest fall in crisscrossing gossamer shifts. She had no sleeves. “I’ve never been bothered by the cold,” the Queen replied, chin held up. So he wanted to know about her powers? Was that why he sought her out?

             “I had wondered how that would work, considering the rumors of your ice castle in the mountains,” the governor said, somehow not losing the gentle look in his eyes, “Ice is dangerous, but you were unharmed when you were returned here. One had to wonder.”

             “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about, Governor?”  

             “In a way, it is, your Majesty. I realize being courted by many men with obvious political agendas could be a stress to you. I will not say that politics did not bring me here or that it does not carry weight in how I conduct myself,” Sokollu responded, stopping their walk by overtaking her pace and standing before her, gentle eyes projecting only trustworthiness, “But I will say that since my arrival, I’ve become enamored with your kingdom, of which the only rival it has in beauty is its monarch.”  

             Elsa’s pale eyebrows lifted marginally. The flattery seemed genuine. Was it a cheap ploy to warm her to the governor? Was he attempting to be transparent in the hopes of gaining her trust? Whatever his angle, Sokollu was the hardest to read amongst her remaining suitors; he played the most subtle game.  

             Some part of her wanted to believe in him. He was handsome in a way that might creep into her fractionally remembered dreams. The idea of a small version of a mix between them both was not without its charms: a blonde son with hazel eyes, a daughter with dark curls and blue eyes, or any variation therein between. But there came again the dark cloud, warning her not to imagine anything with a man that had been sent by an empire, swallowing up the images of children in its darkness.  

             The governor went on, “I hope that you allow me to stay longer, if not to learn who you are and what makes this kingdom great under your guidance, to perhaps observe the bountiful beauty a while more.”

             The dark cloud halted its advance for a moment, and Elsa felt a small ember of hope flare within her. Learn who she was? Could he care about Arendelle and its people? The cloud advanced, but where shadow covered the little—minuscule, really—flame, it’s light did not die. “May I?” he asked, bowing and extending his hand for hers. She had laid her chilly hand in the warm palm of his before she had time to think about the consequences, and he lowered his lips so close to her skin that she could feel the heat of his breath. They hovered there, never connecting before he pulled away and released her hand. He turned to leave, slowly, fanning the flame with a gentle gaze.

             “Until dinner, your Majesty,” Sokollu murmured in the hall, deep voice only for her ears. He left her standing where she was, fingers tensing and feet unmoving, and she watched his broad back disappear around a corner before she could breathe again. Moments passed and she remained until she had finally realized that she was holding her hand up and examining it as though the almost kiss on her skin should have left a mark.  

             Elsa shivered, the tight feeling creeping back in. Even if Sokollu was in earnest, and even if they had a fairytale romance and everything was well and good and right, there was still the very real possibility that she could kill him. The thought made the little flame waver, and sputter, but as Elsa finally resumed her walking, it did not blink out.

* * *

             A wet, melting snow fell from the skies in a dusting manner, just heavy enough to make the world seem muted in gray tones. As Kristoff drove his sled across the lingering snow, he was increasingly agitated to have been sent out into the weather to show some of Arendelle’s finer points to the governor from Bosnia. Anna had listened to too much gossip concerning the dignitary and her sister. A week ago, someone spread a rumor that they had been kissing in a hallway, and while Anna had asked if it was true and gotten a negative answer, she seemed to be very interested in having her sister pick the suitor who was now seated beside him.  

             So this trip was Anna’s idea, a way of having Kristoff get a feel for who the man was.  

             “How’d a guy your age get to be a governor?” asked the tactless driver. He didn’t know what else Anna had expected. At least the passenger seemed to take his bluntness in stride; he wore a small smile as he looked out at the passing scenery. “There was no one else who was able to; they were all too old or too moronic,” he answered, smile taking on a slight edge, “Men who were concerned with filling their coffers were disqualified, as were those whose agendas conflicted with the Empire. Of those left, I was simply the best candidate.”

             Kristoff supposed he could respect that answer, but he’d really only asked to see if the governor would reply, or, to hear if the man had obtained rank nefariously. He was surprised when the governor had a question of his own to ask, and by the question itself, “And you? How did you come to be the Prince of Arendelle? How did you woo Princess Anna?”

             Generally, romance was a little less dire than how he and Anna had gotten together. “Uh,” Kristoff started uncertainly, “I met her almost two years ago… When the Queen had her coronation and then Anna accidently agitated her into revealing her ice powers, Anna rode after… Anyhow, she needed a guide up the North Mountain, and I was losing money to the blizzard in summer, so we went to see if Anna couldn’t talk Elsa into coming home.” He stopped, uncertain as to whether or not any of this would make sense to the man next to him. And also because remembering just how his life had changed in only a day and a half made his tongue feel heavy in his mouth. For a moment, Kristoff let his thoughts subside in favor of watching how Sven was doing, pulling the sled. The reindeer didn’t get nearly enough exercise anymore. Kristoff tried to keep Sven busy, but… Anna was so close to having the baby and they still had a few suitors running around, and… When had he started rambling when he thought? Anna was rubbing off on him.

             The governor cleared his throat, reminding Kristoff that he had been talking, “Oh, right. Well, after the Queen thawed out Arendelle, Anna and I got to know each other better. We were married last summer.”

             Apparently, it was a lackluster story to the governor, who lapsed into silence. For an hour and a half, the pair rode through Arendelle, Kristoff pointing at things and explaining their importance and the dignitary nodding and asking sparse questions. When they approached the gate of the castle, the governor spoke again.  

             “I understand that the Queen and her sister are very close,” the man said, and Kristoff was shaken a little at the intensity of his gaze, “Please give your wife a glowing recommendation, and let her know that I only have praise for her kingdom.”

             Kristoff blinked, stuttering a bit to say, “W-what do you mean? Anna d-didn’t—,”

             “She did. I know this wasn’t your idea; I can tell you’re not the type to plot and scheme. I’m under the impression that you don’t remember my name,” the governor said; he was right. Kristoff thought it was something like Skull, but he couldn’t recall. The man continued, “Honest men like you do not fall into situations like these often, but it’s all the better that you are Prince of Arendelle. A lesser would scheme to take the throne while the Queen’s line is not secure. Trust me, Prince Kristoff. I have seen enough political intrigue in my time as governor to know when the game is afoot. Protect your family. I will watch the men still scheming for her Majesty’s hand.”  

             They passed through the gates before Kristoff could do more than sit in uncomfortable silence. Kristoff numbly pulled on the reins to halt their movement and the governor climbed out, turned back to say, “ _Cao_ , and good luck,” before marching back towards the castle.

             Taking to unharnessing Sven, Kristoff tried to work through his thoughts as he had, giving voice to his oldest friend. “ _So he’s evil, right?_ ” Kristoff asked, seeing the worry on Sven’s face.  

             “I don’t know. I can’t tell. He was right, though. Hans did just what the governor said someone else would have done, and maybe he heard about it, already. There are an awful lot of gossips in the castle.”

             “ _If he’s not like the other guys, does that mean he’s a good guy?_ ”

             “Not necessarily. He may just be better at hiding his intentions than they are. And they’re all very good at it. Elsa isn’t going to have an easy time with any of this. I don’t envy her. There’s no way I’d stick my nose in this.”

             “ _But what if she picks that guy and he’s bad? What if it’s not safe for Anna and the baby?_ ”

             “What if he’s fine and everyone lives happily ever after?” Kristoff asked, feeling deluded even as the words came out of his mouth. Sven schooled his features into a doubtful reproach. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye out for any shenanigans. Happy?”

             “ _No._ ”

             “Why not?”

             “ _There’s usually a carrot at the end of one of these discussions, remember?_ ”

             When Kristoff produced a bundle of carrots from the sleigh, he couldn’t help but laugh at Sven’s enthusiasm. Turning towards the castle himself, Kristoff tried and failed to decide on what his appraisal of the governor to his wife was going to be. Eventually, he knew he’d have to tell her all of it.

* * *

 

             There was an art to avoiding the prying eyes of the Queen’s guests. It had a lot to do with blending into the staff when necessary and staying in places the suitors were unlikely to go. The first group to leave made it easier to hide, but the second group to leave left Hans very open to scrutiny. More than once, he pulled a hat on his head and snuck to the stables to see Sitron for the entirety of the daylight hours.

             There was a man amongst the final group that made Hans the wariest above the others. At a distance, more than once, Hans caught the man looking at him. He was in the stables the morning that Hans ran into him. Worse than that, the man was interested only in Sitron, it seemed. That was until he spoke to Hans without turning to face him, “Horses here are strange to me. I have several in my stable in Bosnia, but none such as this… or that have such strangely colored manes. What breed is this?”

             The man did not touch Hans’ horse, and Sitron wasn’t shying away from the man, but Hans was so uneasy that his voice broke when he answered, “He’s… a Fjord horse.”

             “Ah. I have an Arabian—a gift from one of the emissaries from the Empire. Very tall, handsome; he’s a spirited stallion and sires a foal every year. It’s a good life for a horse, isn’t it?” The man turned to face Hans, and the light touched his face enough to see a pair of hazel eyes that seemed to bore into him. A thought that maybe the man wasn’t talking about horses, not really, occurred to the prince.

             “F-for a horse, yes…?”

             “What is your purpose here, Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles?”

             A sound like a dull pounding filled the stable suddenly—or filled his ears, either way, he couldn’t tell the difference. Hans swallowed what tasted like bile back down. In the space of a few heartbeats, the man moved three steps forward, until he was much too close for Hans’ comfort. Sitron watched from his stall attentively. “You… you know who I am?”

             “I know who you are. I know what your brothers had done to you up to the point of your ‘death,’” the man said, moving a pace closer, and Hans could no more back away than he could blink; the man continued, “I know that was unlikely to be the worst you suffered. What I do not know is why you were allowed sanctuary in the country whose monarch you tried to kill and whose throne you tried to steal.”

             The man advanced again, and although Hans was the taller of the two, the suitor seemed to loom over him. Why did it feel like if Hans ran, this man would catch him? His expression suggested Hans had better start explaining.

             “I’m under political asylum,” Hans answered, voice gravelly, “My older brothers—well, at least ten of them—would like nothing more than to capture me… and resume what they were doing to me—,”

             The man interrupted, “I gathered as much, Prince Hans. Skip to the part where you start living in Arendelle’s castle.”

             “In the summer of last year, a man freed me from my prison, and h-he and his wife smuggled me here. The Princess wasn’t pleased to see me, but the Queen… took mercy on me. She hadn’t sent me to my brothers to be treated the way I had been, she said, to paraphrase. So I was allocated a room, and her Majesty sent word to my eldest brother that I was alive and here. Bounty-hunters had been sent after me. One made it all the way to my room, and had the Queen not intervened, he would have taken me back to my other brothers. After that, she made sure that I was safe until my eldest brother, Prince Dorian, arrived. He and the Queen made some sort of deal; she would give me shelter for a time and Dorian would compensate her, and when he deemed it safe, I would leave. But my brothers snuck a man into Arendelle, who made it very clear that the only place they wouldn’t be able to get to me is here. The Queen has allowed me to remain here.”

             “That explains how you came to be here. I’ll ask again, and be a touch more pointed. What is your purpose here? Are you and the Queen in some sort of tryst?”

            Despite being thoroughly threatened by this man, a small pocket of laughter dislodged within him, and although he tried to hold it back, it burst forth. It was very obviously a surprise to the Queen’s suitor, who blinked like he had been pinched on the arm, or had his ears boxed. Hans covered his mouth with his bare, cold hand. The sensation seemed to ground him long enough to say past his fingers, “You mean, you don’t know?”

            “’Don’t know,’ what?” the man asked, clearly somewhat confused. Hans tried not to sound like he had any humor in him when he dodged, “I would have thought, since you’re so clearly observant, that you would have noticed…” He couldn’t quite finish explaining. It wasn’t funny, but for some reason, Hans thought that his interrogator missing this key factor was somehow… silly.

            “I don’t understand,” the man said, an edge of irritation creeping in, “What should I have noticed?”

            So, uncomfortably, Hans made it clear that he was no stallion, and just saying it out loud was somewhere between embarrassing and humiliating. He wouldn’t have chosen to tell anyone, had that been possible. In their analogy, he was a gelding, but rather than being put to pasture, he had been stabled with a whole group of stallions after one mare. The look on the stallion’s—the man’s—face after Hans had told him was somewhere between pity and disgust.  

            “I owe you an apology, Prince Hans,” he said. Hans shook his head, saying, “I don’t want one. If you could just avoid spreading it around, I would appreciate it. It’s one thing to live with it privately. It’s another to be saddled with this stigma publically for the rest of my life.”

            The man nodded, and then decided to extend a gloved hand. “Governor Sokollu,” he said, an introduction, “I’m glad to know that the Queen is as virtuous as I perceived her to be. You perhaps can see my dilemma: an unmarried man of high rank living in the castle of an unmarried queen for many months with no explanation.”

            “Well, your worry was unfounded,” Hans said, self-deprecatingly adding, “Aside from Queen Elsa being immensely dutiful, I was never any competition.”

            The governor nodded his head and they made small talk for a short time after. Finally, Sokollu made and excuse and then made his exit. Hans went to Sitron immediately, needing to stroke the horse’s muzzle to bring himself back to any level of calm. Avoiding the governor seemed more pertinent now than ever. Either the man was the world’s most calculating and manipulative liar, or he was genuinely interested in Queen Elsa. Some part of him hoped it would be the former, because if the man’s manner was all pretense, that opened up the possibility of the man leaving. And it seemed important that a man like him not stay indefinitely.  

* * *

 

            The palace was unusually quiet. The staff had been let out of their duties for the day, and most had decided to go home rather than stay in what was effectively a mausoleum in the face of what had happened.

            It had been two days ago.

_It started in the dining hall. There were loud, angry shouts that reached out into the hall, and the sound of breaking porcelain. Egon had been placed on detail for the last fifteen minutes of a meal that until then had been quiet. Linnéa was inside, likely waiting to take plates as their diners finished with them, and so her husband didn’t hesitate to burst into the hall. He saw that his wife wasn’t cowering in a corner taking cover but wasn’t close enough to be hit by any of the shattering tableware. The two combatants were the Bosnian governor and a lord from somewhere south of Corona._

_“Take back those words, you lecherous rat,” Sokollu demanded, irate but not the one throwing plates. The lord sneered, trying to fake bravado, obviously unnerved by the anger of the other suitor. “Why? Does the truth hurt your precious ears, or are you just defending your slut?”_

_Linnéa seemed to be a shade of red that promised violence. The other suitors had taken the side of the lord, their collective hissing blending together into insults to the governor. Egon watched Sokollu dive for the lord, and the pair fell to the floor in a heap of thrown fists and scrambling limbs. The veteran had enough at that point. He ran over and pulled the governor off the lord, not gentle in breaking up the fight. Forgetting himself for a moment, he was transported back to his days in the army, and the first words out of his mouth were words he would have said to dueling young soldiers. Their vulgarity happened to be something he wished he could forget. Still, he had the men’s attention._

_“What?” Egon asked, still having to hold the Bosnian man back. His wife answered, having been witness to the whole thing, apparently, “That rat bastard—“ there was an interrupting hiss from said bastard and his cohorts, “—he started in about the Queen. He was saying some awful things. All of them were lies, and the governor had enough—“_

_She was cut off by Sokollu this time; “Vile scum,” he said, before spitting at the lord, which almost caused the start of another fight. Egon kept the men from each other, just barely._

_“I suggest you all go back to your rooms, gentlemen,” came a voice from the door, which every person in the hall looked at the source of, Princess Anna, heavily pregnant and radiating anger that brokered no argument. “Out,” she commanded._

_The room was left empty, and the princess had disappeared after watching the men file out, gone likely to speak to the Queen. Egon stayed to help in cleaning up, Linnéa telling him exactly what was said under her breath, and at the end of her story, the veteran was a little sorry he hadn’t let Sokollu whale on the lord longer._

            Egon walked through the halls on the way to the Queen’s rooms, having been part of the guard that stayed as if it were a normal day. His footsteps on the carpet made as little sound as possible, but he felt like he made as much noise as a herd of cattle would. Linnéa, he knew, was with the group with Arendelle’s monarch inside her apartment. He stopped at the doors, turned, and began his watch.

* * *

            They were in Elsa’s bedroom, sitting on the floor alone, with several people in the next room. Anna was wrapped in a blanket and was closest to the lit fireplace, the blaze obviously a seldom occurrence. She would hold her sister’s hand if she could, but Elsa was still too upset, still not in control.

_The shouting and the sounds of breaking tableware had drawn her from her place in the portrait hall, where she had been reading to her baby—it was oddly calming for her—and into the doorway to watch the altercation therein. When she had spoken up, it was because she had seen enough, and also because there were enough broken things on the floor. She had been so mad at the moment that she couldn’t quite catalog it in her brain that a rowdy group of strangers paid her enough attention to leave the room when she told them to. Maybe it was her current state of pregnancy, but not a one of them shot her a mean glance as they left._

_Anna left a moment after the last one had filed out, aiming to go and let Elsa know what had happened. She found her sister in the library, pouring over some series of lists or reports with an advisor. The look on her was enough to have the Queen dismiss the man and listen to Anna’s recounting of the incident. At the end, Elsa had a look on her face that was hard to read—it was somewhere between angry and touched—and finally told her sister, “We’ll get to the bottom of it in the morning.”_

_Anna had gone to bed worried and woken worried. Before breakfast was to be served, the Queen had called a meeting in the audience hall and had sent a servant to request Anna and Kristoff’s presence._

_The suitors loitered in the hall, and aside from Sokollu, seemed to generally be acting like they were about to be told to leave. Hans, standing off to one side with Egon, surprised Anna. She couldn’t actually remember the last time she had seen him. Tugging on Kristoff’s sleeve, they made a detour before stopping in front of the veteran and Prince._

_She couldn’t help herself when she asked, honestly confused, “What are you doing here? Did Elsa ask for you?”_

_The prince cut his eyes downward, and the veteran started to answer when the other man stayed quiet, “No. I told him what happened last night and he followed me down here.”_

_Anna’s silence eventually pulled the Hans’ attention up to her. He would have to answer for himself. “I assume Elsa is going to dismiss the suitors except for the Bosnian governor,” he said, and when that didn’t satisfy Anna enough to break her concentration, Hans continued, “I don’t…trust that man. He’s too hard to read. I just wanted to know what was going to happen.”_

_The Princess would have asked something more, but about the time she opened her mouth, Elsa was heralded into the room. The group of four moved away from the wall, watching the suitors gravitate slowly towards the dais and Queen._

_Elsa started out by asking for an account of what happened, and Linnéa was produced to relate what she had seen. It was a colorful description that got quieter every time she had to use one of the insults that had been lobbed back and forth the night previous. When she was done, Sokollu had been painted as the one in the right._

_The same lord who had the altercation with the man from Bosnia seemed elected to speak next. And speak he did. The windbag. Anna hadn't heard such pompous rhetoric since... well, it was pompous all the same. And it seemed he knew that he was losing the Queen, both in the subject and in being her possible suitor. When he realized, however, that the battle was lost, he seemed to take a change, rather like a cornered animal becoming more vicious._

_"I can see I was a fool to ever go against this man, Your Majesty. He has you wrapped around his finger more perfectly than any of us could ever dream of. I imagine that you know about the little rumor? The one that says you're riding his cock?" Outraged gasps filled the room, but which the Queen quieted with a commanding hand. The lord went on, "I've worked it out; he started those rumors, Queen Elsa. This is all of his design. The crown will be his by default. You'll kick us all out except your benevolent white knight, and perhaps he will be a good husband, perhaps he will be a good king, but it will be all for the sake of adding Arendelle to his masters' Empire. You'll be saddled with bearing his children and playing entertainment for his sultans. But, by all rights, Queen Elsa, the choice is yours."_

_Although half of the people in attendance wanted nothing more than to drag the man out by his ears, he was permitted to leave of his own volition, once he had gathered his things. He left the audience hall with his nose so far in the air it was a wonder he could see where he was going. Still, the suitors' dismissals did not end there. Elsa sent each man packing individually, one after another. She said it was for the benefit of their respective countries._

_Soon, the Queen was left with just two suitors, the Governor, and another._

_"You," Elsa said to the suitor whose name Anna had never cared to learn, "May leave. Tell your kinsmen that of my suitors you were the one I disliked least." The man bowed his head in acceptance but marched out with the firm shoulders and straight back of a man who had been insulted. The crowd was down to so few. Anna, Kristoff, Linnéa, Egon, Hans, Sokollu, and the few royal guards and staff who had not been sent off with the suitors to watch that they hadn't taken anything or done the castle a disservice._

_"Governor... may I speak to you privately?" Elsa asked. Anna shook her head, silently pleading that her sister would not go and be alone with the man. But Sokollu agreed, and they went to speak in the Queen's hall. Anna looked at her husband, who pulled her into a hug that she didn't realize she needed so much until she was in his arms. He said kind words just loud enough for her alone to hear. She didn't know how long she had stayed like that because she could live her life in the strong arms around her, but eventually, the voice of her sister screamed out "HELP!!!" from behind the door._

* * *

            _They entered the hallway, and Elsa was again affronted by how little emotion she could read from the man in front of her. But the suitor Sokollu fought with had already done his damage._

_"You will be returning home," she told him blankly, unfeelingly. He recoiled slightly, the most telling of reactions so far. "But, your Majesty... I... I thought we were..."_

_"You thought wrong," Elsa stated, blunt, and continued, "You're either lying to me or you have a genuine interest in me, but I can't tell the difference. You're too hard for me to read."_

_"I have a genuine interest in you, Elsa," Sokollu replied, half a plea in his voice. He reached for one of her hands._

_Already she was barely controlling her emotions, so she put her hand behind her back, out of his reach, afraid of his touch in the back of her mind. His face spasmed, not understanding, perhaps believing she wanted to deny him out of some sort of spite. "My Queen," he said, meeting her eyes with those gentle hazel orbs, beseeching her, "Please, what can I say to make you believe me?"_

_"Nothing," Elsa said, control slipping for a moment so that her voice broke, "That man's speech worked as intended. You were too hard to trust before, but I'll never know if you're here for me or here for your Empire. I can't imagine a life married to a man I can never give my full trust."_

_"But he was wrong," Sokollu said, hands raised as if to put them on her thin shoulders. Elsa took a step back, weary to be touched in a moment where she was fighting to keep her power in check. “He was wrong, I’m telling you,” he took a step forward, catching her in his arms. In the next second, he was pressing his lips to hers._

_She was surprised._

_He was trying to convey so much with his embrace and with that kiss._

            Fear would be her enemy, _always._

_Sokollu landed heavily against the door that led back to the audience hall, pushed away with a combination of concussive cold air and the heavy frost that radiated with Elsa and filled almost every part of the hall._

_The governor looked fearful, covered in frost. Elsa stepped forward, wishing she could take it back. "Y-you shocked me," she said, feeling tears prick her eyes, "I was trying not to—"_

_Sokollu pulled his limbs closer to his body, fear turning into a sort of pain. Had she frozen him? Was he going to turn to ice like Anna? She couldn't let that happen. She didn't want that to happen._

_"HELP!!!" she cried, not daring to get too near. It wasn't three seconds later that the door burst in as much as it could, Egon and other guards trying to force their way in._

_"He's pressed against it," she warned them, and though they were more gentle, Sokollu was still in the way of opening the door._

_Their gaze, each and every guard, went from the Queen to the suitor in the floor, taking in every inch of the frost-covered hall. Sokollu was lifted between two guards and taken away quickly, an attempt to help him to a fire at her behest. At the first opportunity, the Queen fled the hall for her apartments._

            In the silence of her room, Elsa replayed the moments over and over, remembering the moment her power was no longer bottled up. Frustrated, she pulled her legs to her chest and set her chin on her knees. Anna watched her, bundled against the cold as if she were some sort of turtle, sympathy written in the pull of her brows.

            "Tell me what you're thinking," Anna pled.

            Elsa tucked her chin to her chest, her lips against the ice fabric of her trousers. "I... I'm thinking about how I put him on a ship back to Bosnia because I couldn't undo what I had done. I'm thinking about how if he wasn't a Governor and I wasn't a Queen, and we had come across each other by chance, things might have been different... And I keep thinking about how pointless it is to think about any of it. I hurt him... it may not have been like how I hurt you, but it was bad enough. If the warm to the south doesn't help him; if he dies, I'll be... They'll label me a monster. Our people will fear me again..." Overcome by her thoughts, Elsa hid her face behind her knees and started to cry again. The frustration of the whole experience weighed heavily, and she couldn't help but voice, miserably, "And I couldn't pick a suitor. The countries may want to send more. They'll want to try again. I'll have to do it all over again and I just can't."

            "You won't have to do anything you don't want to," Anna said, keeping her distance despite visibly looking like she wanted to touch her sister, "We can tell those countries to find some other queen to bother; you gave it a shot. It's not your fault they didn't work."

            Elsa squeezed her legs tighter against her chest in place of hugging her sister, Anna's words only barely making her feel less frustrated. "It's a nice thought, but all I can think of is how I said we wouldn't go to war. And that may not be true once all the suitors return to their homes."

            Anna didn't have words, it seemed. She knew that war would do to Arendelle what a fire does to wood. Their kingdom would be overrun quickly, and in the end, there would be nothing left of life before.

            "Should we... Should the people come to court?" Anna asked. Elsa heaved a heavy sigh, better than sobbing, and nodded. "Yes," she bade, "If for nothing else than to explain what might happen."

            Anna was slow to get to her feet, obviously struggling with her large belly. The Queen thought to offer her sister help, and the words died in her throat as she hesitated. Could she help without hurting Anna? She doubted herself, but in the same moment reached forward anyway, securing Anna's back as she stood and letting go once she was sure Anna had her balance. A smile spread Anna's lips, happy and proud, but Elsa couldn't return it with the same strength, her smile more of a grimace than a grin. Being able to help Anna up once was no more a breakthrough than being able to keep her from freezing in the cold of Elsa's room.

            Out in the study, waiting was a rag-tag council who all turned their attentions to Elsa. Anna went to stand with Kristoff, Olaf waddling over to the expecting pair to take Anna's hand in between the branches of his. Egon and Linnéa, Hans, Gerda, and Kai completed the group, and Elsa wondered if they were all that were left inside of the castle.

            "I... I don't know what to say," Elsa began, folding her hands together in front of her, eyes on her fingernails. Kai spoke first, "Your Grace, you needn't say anything. We all understand."

            "Whatever happened behind that door, the Governor had a hand in it, we know," Linnéa tacked on. Her husband nodded resolutely beside her.

            "...Thank you... all... but I...," Elsa trailed, thoughts tumbling over one another, like that she only felt guilty, and that she didn't feel like she deserved their understanding, that she had been too weak to maintain control. Rather than say anything more on that line of thought, she lifted her head and said, "We should prepare ourselves, and our people, for the possibility of war. I have no other ideas. If anyone else does, feel free to speak."

            Everyone was quiet, each eyeballing the group collectively as though waiting for someone else to speak.

            Olaf, out of the whole group, was the first to speak. "War? I've never been to war, but the way you said it, it sounds like something really bad."

            "It is," Egon confirmed, the veteran resolute in his statement, "Men, gone before their time; their families bereft without them, the country that loses conquered or worse, and poor as dirt. War is not something one goes into lightly."

            "Especially not against a greater force," Kristoff added, to which Olaf nodded. The snowman set his chin on one wooden fist, thinking. It seemed that the silence stretched on so long that the group had moved past explaining war to Olaf. Right about the time Elsa noticed Anna open her mouth, Olaf broke his silence again.

            "War is bad, and we're too small to really win war, so we would need to be bigger, and Elsa isn't going to fight because her powers are really unstable and also because she doesn't want to. The other countries might call for war because Elsa didn't marry the people they sent to her, but all they sent were bad choices so it's really not her fault. But if Elsa has to do that again it might make her crazy."

            The Queen couldn't tear her eyes away from Olaf, who had caught on to so much more than she had expected him to. It made her surprisingly emotional. He continued, again putting his branchy fist to his face, "How could you win war? If only... if only there was someone who owed you a lot and who had a way to get an army and who wouldn't expect anything from you and that wouldn't mind _not_ being king and..."

            Elsa and six other pairs of eyes turned to look at one person, who's sudden turn as the center of attention made visibly uncomfortable. Olaf was quiet and confused, "Wait, why are you all looking at Hans?"

* * *

             The Queen had asked Hans to take a walk with her, perhaps noting his discomfort. They were several halls away from her apartment when he finally broke his silence, "Ask anything of me, your Majesty."

            He caught her slight flinch, but other than that, couldn't discern what was on her mind. Her soft footfalls slowed and stopped, Hans turning to face her. "The thing that Olaf... if I... how... how," her voice was quiet, but not soft, and when she finally met his gaze, Hans was aware of the hardness in her crystalline eyes, "How can I ask the man who at one time would have murdered me and left my sister to die to marry me?"

            It was deserved. Other than his first thought, Hans had no answer for the Queen, and so it tripped out of his mouth with halting speech and a wince, "That's a... a good question." Fair brows lowered over blue eyes, not softening their pointed, cold look. "That's not helpful, Prince Hans," Elsa stated.

            "What would you have me say, Queen Elsa? I don't know what to say... I'm not the same as I was then," _I'm not even a man anymore_ , Hans added internally. The Queen looked away after a long moment. She spoke quietly and Hans wasn't sure, but it sounded like her voice had softened, "You're not. I know. But would anyone else be able to look past it?" She shook her head, and the movement made her dress catch the light, but the gown was lackluster compared to others she had created.

            "Dorian—Dorian is the heir, and... maybe he feels guilty that he didn't expect our brothers to be as... to do to me what they did..." Hans felt like he was grasping at the correct phrasing, mind passing over all the horrors he endured, "But if an alliance were made between Arendelle and the Southern Isles, Dorian would not leave Arendelle to its fate. Naysayers may look past it while my brother’s army protected them."

            "And you would be King of Arendelle?" Elsa asked, voice regaining an edge to it. Hans came back to the thought that had made his stomach turn since the room of people had looked at him with such intention. It made him almost physically sick, the thought that what he had schemed for, what he had been _broken_ for wanting, was being offered to him.

            "I couldn't be king of anything, Queen Elsa," Hans replied rather hoarsely, "I certainly know that I'm not worthy to be."

            Elsa let out something like a scoff, and when their silence had lasted a moment, she started to walk.

            "You’re telling me no, then," she said, "I couldn't ask anything of you after all."

            "Your Majesty, I—,"

            Elsa spun on him, visibly irritated. "You come to my kingdom and try and steal it. I send you home to brothers who were only supposed to give you a fitting punishment, and someone drags you back a year later, tortured and castrated. And I feel sorry for you, and I let you live here, but it's been almost a year since and I haven't got a good reason for why you're still here. Protection, I know, but not one that benefits me. And the one thing that you could do to help me, you don't seem to be open to." Elsa had taken a step closer, fists clenched at her sides, looking up at him and somehow looming over him too.

            He looked down at his feet, unable to withstand the scrutiny. He could imagine his brothers and their reactions to the news. Dorian would be pleased with the alliance, pleased Arendelle would be tied to the Southern Isles. Henrik,Vilppu, and Jerrik, the other three not a part of the events after his “hanging” would perhaps be indifferent, but all the rest—Aleksander, Adelbert, Iefan, Stanley, Dagny, Owain, Cynebald, and Gustav—they might would throw caution to the wind and come to Arendelle themselves.

            “Your kingdom will need an heir,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

            “Anna’s child or children,” she replied with little hesitation. Hans looked up to see the Queen wearing a calm expression. He couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking, wondering if marriage to him for an army would ever be worth as much as a child of her own. The Queen was willing to sacrifice that future for Arendelle. He owed so much to her, and if a political match for political reasons was the least she could ask of him, he couldn’t refuse.

            Hans lowered himself to one knee, less than graceful, and repeated, “Ask anything of me, your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it didn't take this long to move. But I got caught up in other things and finishing all the points in this chapter that I wanted to seemed to take forever. I'd like to laugh and say at least this chapter was out before _Winds of Winter_ but then I'd cry because it was only one chapter and it took almost a year.   
>  From here on out, I do expect to focus more solely on Elsa and Hans' relationship. And I won't try and outdo my chapter lengths, which I was doing.  
> As always, thanks for reading.


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